


Rob(bed) Senseless

by UnluckyAlis



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7307932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnluckyAlis/pseuds/UnluckyAlis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a bat, Robin utilizes all his senses in the field. They're vital to the mission. So what happens when, for some reason or another, he loses one of his senses?</p><p>A series of AU one-shots ranging from hurt, to humorous, to friendly fluff or shameless whump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hearing

After five years of heroism, Robin is no novice when it comes to being caught up in explosions. He knows that there are many people-Bruce, Alfred, and Leslie to name a few-who wish he doesn't have to know the proper actions to take in order to avoid serious injury when a bomb goes off, or a building starts collapsing. But Robin has the knowledge, and he relies on it frequently. Although there is only so much he can do when the bomb is one thin apartment wall away.

He had been trying to defuse it, but the alien tech proved to be too advanced. It doesn't help that the count down isn't made woith any recognizably human numbering system. Robin has no way of knowing there are only three seconds left when he finally gives up his task and chooses instead to flee.

The only warning he has are five quick beeps that sound almost like a single tone. He immediately throws himself to the ground, pulling his cape around his body, and wonders not for the first time if it would be useful to have a hood. He doesn't have time to plug his ears or open his mouth before the bomb goes off.

The force of the explosion sends him flying across the room and he slams into the wall. The loud blast, combined with his head bouncing against a concealed stud, leaves Robin reeling, disoriented, and with blood dripping down his neck. His ears ring, the room spins, and his grip on the cape loosens.

The Nomex and Kevlar weave that form it make for a durable material, but the added weight used to slow him down, so Robin's own cape is less dense than Batman's, and thus a less effective protector. The heat has already started to sear his skin, but now the flames are licking at his pale flesh as well. Robin barely manages to hold back a cry of pain, knowing that if he does the orange tongues could very well leap down his throat.

He had known a fire-eater, back in his Flying Grayson days, and knows for a fact that swallowing these flames would result in permanent damage.

It takes much too long for his body to shut down, turning off unnecessary functions and sending him into unconsciousness, where the pain can't touch him.

* * *

 

The burns are extensive, but nothing he can't recover from. It turns out that the bomb itself hadn't been overly powerful, but the fact that Robin was only a few feet away, and remained trapped with the flames, had been the biggest problem. Plus the smoke.

He awakes to the stiff feeling of bandages wrapped tightly around his limbs. Moving is only a little painful, and Robin supposes he's been given an impressive cocktail of painkillers. If he lies perfectly still, the only twinges of pain come with the rising and falling of his chest. His throat is sore and he can't hear anything when he tries to speak. He had either inhaled too much smoke, or the fire had danced in his throat. He assumes the former, since his attempt at speaking doesn't hurt. Though that could be the drugs.

Based on the pattern in the ceiling tiles, he's in the Watchtower infirmary.

Despite how challenging it is, Robin turns his head to look at the clipboard he knows will be by his bed. That's how it always is in the Watchtower. When you wake up, you can easily learn the extent of your injuries if no one is around to tell you. Someone, probably Batman, had propped up the clipboard so Robin can properly read it.

Burns on 31% of his body. Both arms, one of his legs, and along his throat and jaw. The most serious of the burns are the inside of his right arm, and his jaw. His throat, supposedly protected by the angle of his head when he collapsed, has received minimal damage. That's a relief.

His gaze briefly flickers to the machine standing in the corner of the room. The green dot travels across the screen, the same jagged pattern repeating over and over in the trail of light. Robin lets himself get lost in the rhythm.

He would be ashamed, later, at how long it takes for him to notice something is off. There was no beeping. Robin frowns and stares at the machine, following the cord with his eyes and making sure that, yes, it does end at his chest above his heart. He thinks the machine could be broken, malfunctioning, before he realizes the problem is him.

As a bat, he's used to silence. Hours spent lying in wait, doing surveillance. Sitting in the Batcave with nothing but the flutter of wings to remind him he isn't entirely alone.

But this isn't like that. Robin is surrounded by utter silence, besides his own thoughts. It doesn't take long before he starts panicking. Which makes his heart race. Which probably makes the monitors start beeping like crazy, but Robin can't exactly hear them to confirm it. Either way, less then a minute after his realization, the door to the room bursts open and Batman is running in, followed by Black Canary, and Leslie Thompkins of all people.

Robin can recognize the curve of Batman's lip as his guardian says his name, but that's about all he catches. He's too busy panicking over the fact that he can't hear it to pay attention to the rest.

Black Canary is at the foot of the bed, Batman on his left, and Leslie on his right. Leslie's hands are fluttering over his bandages, feeling his forehead, and checking his IV. Batman is probably whispering reassuring words, maybe even using Robin's real name. None of it helps.

Robin says Batman's name, trying to gain his attention. He doesn't like the way he can't hear his own voice. It echoes in his head, but it doesn't reach his ears. It's unnerving, but he can't use his hands to sign.

'Batman!' Robin repeats, louder. At least he thinks it should be louder. He waits a moment, makes sure their mouths have stopped moving, then speaks again.

'I can't here you.' He doesn't break eye contact, looks straight into the lenses of Batman's cowl. 'I can't hear anything.'

Batman freezes, says something. Robin just shakes his head. He can't believe how calm he seems right now, but inside he's still freaking out.

There's a light touch in his foot, and Robin looks to Black Canary. He doesn't like her pitying expression. It looks like she is going to say something, then she hesitates. Canary knows a little sign language, but she isn't proficient at it. While she struggles with a method of communication, Robin focuses on Leslie. The doctor isn't rushing around anymore. She's speaking to Batman in a solemn tone, Batman says something back, and then she's yelling. Robin doesn't have to hear to know what she's screaming about.

Leslie always disapproved of the idea of Robin. She would frown and tut and lecture Bruce every time she was called in to provide medical assistance. Robin always tells Leslie that it was his fault, not Bruce's. That it is his choice to keep fighting. He never regrets his injuries. The mistakes that lead to them, yes. But the injuries themselves are proof that he is fighting. This time, though, it's a little different. He doesn't regret it. He wishes he could have stopped the bomb, but at least he'd been able to buy everyone else a little more time.

But this time he won't make a full recovery. He can already tell, because Leslie looks almost resigned. Robin realizes that she must have known, must have done scans to check for brain injuries, and discovered he couldn't hear. She probably just didn't want to believe it, not until Robin himself could confirm it. Which he just did.

He tries to get a word in, stop them from fighting like he usually does. But they are either ignoring him, or he isn't talking loud enough. Unnerved by his inability to hear his own voice, Robin gives up and turns away as best as he can, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Robin remains in the Watchtower until his burns are sufficiently healed, which takes a couple weeks. It took him a while to adjust to seeing the different colours on his skin. Red where the burns were light enough not to need grafts, but damaging enough to scar. Pale white on the couple severe areas where his skin had to be replaced. And the faded tan of his normal skin, which was losing its colour after lack of sunlight.

One of the first things he does when the bandages are removed and he can move freely is stand in front of the full length mirror, taking in his new, patchwork skin. It reminds him of the Flying Grayson uniforms, when they would wear out, and his mother couldn't afford the material to make an entirely new suit. She made due with whatever she could get her hands on, which meant that sometimes the shades of green didn't match up quite right. But this time he can't remove the suit, or make a new one, because he is the suit. He's gotten used to it, though, and most of the burns can be covered by long sleeves and jeans. He is just a little self-conscious of the red skin crawling along his throat, and the pale white kissing his jaw. He can't hide that.

Batman hasn't told him what Dick Grayson's cover is, but Robin figures it has to be pretty close to the truth. His burns are still sensitive and can't be covered with make-up or synthetic skin, which would risk infection. And it will be impossible to hide his newfound deafness.

Over the weeks, Robin notices a few changes when it comes to his senses. They are extremely subtle, but will probably become more noticeable over time, as the portion of his brain once dedicated to hearing will be used for other functioning skills. His sense of smell has gotten better. Not by much, not yet. But he doesn't have to be as close to someone to make out their personal aroma. The second thing he notices is an increase in air motion sensitivity. Again, not by much, but it's there. If someone is close to him, he can feel a slight shift in the air if they moved their arm or lean forwards. It hardly makes up for lack of hearing, since they have to be close, and the movements have to be larger. But he can still tell. Pairing that with what Wally always calls his 'bat senses' can be a useful skill.

Robin is still far from used to being deaf, though. He jumps whenever someone approaches him from behind, and announces themselves via a touch to the shoulder. He wants to hear the gravelly tone of Batman's voice, or the low cadence of Bruce's. He wants to hear his own voice, and the cackle that frightens even Harley Quinn. Not the Joker, because nothing scares him. The insane clown had actually said he likes Robin's laugh. They had a contest once.

Most of all, Robin wants to see the Team again. At first he thought they were injured in the blast as well, and couldn't come and see him. Canary told him later that Batman wasn't letting any visitors in besides Leslie, and a select few League members. This not only explained the absence of the Team, but also Barry, Oliver, and Diana, who he considers his uncles and aunt. Clark has stopped by a couple times, but there is some strange business going on in Metropolis that keeps him occupied.

Despite all this, Dick hasn't just been sitting around while he is confined to bed rest, which really contradicts the whole point of bed rest. He's taken the time to brush up on his sign language, and practice lip reading. Batman brought him his holographic computer when he regained mobility of his arms. He used his technological skills to hack into the Watchtower's systems right away. He reviewed security feeds and transcribed records to practice lip reading. Dick considers himself sufficient at it, but knows that he needs to be better.

Leslie cleared him to leave several days ago, and Batman promised to take him home today. Dick is standing in front of his door in a loose fitting hoodie and a pair of sweats, both of them boasting the Gotham Knights logo, when Batman enters. His mentor is in full uniform, as expected, and Dick holds out an expectant hand. At some point during the explosion, or afterwards due to sweat, his mask had fallen off and burned up. Surprisingly, Batman didn't bring another one, or a pair of sunglasses, when he brought the more comfortable clothes. Dick has suspicions about the reason why, but hopes he is wrong. When Batman just turns away and starts walking down the hall, Dick's shoulders fall.

If Batman had provided him with some kind of eye covering, it meant there was a chance he could go see the Team. Since he didn't, that opportunity was crushed. There probably aren't even any other leaguers in the tower right now.

Dick hurries after his mentor and settles at a pace three steps behind. They zeta beam to the Batcave, and Dick winces at the strain on his injuries. It isn't exactly harmful to travel through zeta beams while injured, but it is definitely unpleasant. It's like his burns have been stuck with pins and needles, and the feeling lingers for several seconds. When said burns cover 31% of his body, that's an extremely unasterous feeling. Dick says as much as he tenderly brushes the burn on his jaw.

Batman stops and turns around, facing Dick square on, and starts to sign.

'What do you want to do?'

Dick frowns. A person outside the bat family would take that question at it's face value, and state what they wanted in that moment. But Dick wants to see the Team, which Batman isn't allowing for some reason, and he knows there's more to the question.

Batman could have asked this question at any time, but he chose to do it now, when Dick almost has his full range of mobility back, and he's been practicing new methods of communication. They're still in the Batcave, and Bruce is still Batman while he, at the moment, is Dick Grayson. He eealizes that Batman is giving him a choice. He can retire to the life of a civilian and learn to cope with his new disability at a normally functioning level. Or he can push himself harder, test his limits, and be Robin again.

Dick's eyes roam up to the tangle of ropes and bars on the ceiling of the cave. Three trapeze swings descend from the mess. Batman added them two years ago, as a birthday present, since the gym in the manor isn't suitable for such equipment, nor is the ceiling high enough to fulfill Dick's aerialist desires. He would flip and twist high above the rocky floor, the bats flying around him as he disturbed them from their perches. He loves that feeling more than anything.

So what does he want to do?

Dick straightens up, meeting Batman's eyes and sets his face in a stony, determined expression. His hands move swiftly and fluidly as he signs his answer.

'Robin will fly again.'


	2. Taste

Nightwing and Kid Flash stand at the island counter on the mountain's kitchen. They're glaring at each other. Although Nightwing, now a master of the batglare, looks more frightening. In front of each of them is a plate of toxic looking food. The members of the Team gathered around them are surprised there isn't a cartoon skull and crossbones above each plate. The stench of the 'food' is almost overwhelming, but no one wants to miss the spectacle.

Because of his speedster advantage, there's a little more food on Wally's plate. Not a lot, just enough to even the odds.

"You boys ready?" Raquel asks. She's the official referee for the contest, and has a hand raised above the counter.

"Born ready, babe," Wally says, which earns him a sharp jab in the side from Artemis.

"Good luck," Batgirl crows from Nightwing's side. Nightwing smirks in response.

"Hardly even need it."

Both boys, because they're veritably not acting like the men they really are, narrow their eyes at each other and place their palms on the table.

"Go!" Raquel slams her hand down, and the heroes lunge for their plates. They start shovelling the food into their mouths immediately. Wally has the advantage of speed, but hardly a second in he's gagging and resisting the urge to throw up. Super speed can't eliminate the horrible taste. But Nightwing is still going, and doesn't stop, while Wally has to frequently pause so he doesn't throw up.

Just over a minute has passed when one of the plates is emptied. The possible victor turns to Raquel and opens his mouth for a food check.

"And he's good!" Raquel shouts, eliciting a series of cheers from the fathered crowd. Nightwing throws his fists in the air, while Wally watches in disbelief with the last bite hovering halfway to his mouth.

"How is that even possible?" Wally protests. "Did you even breathe?"

"Says the guy who practically inhales his food," Artemis snarks.

"Seriously, though! That stuff was disgusting. What kind of food do you bats eat?" Wally gapes.

Nightwing ignores him, and turns to Batgirl. "How about a victory kiss?"

"No way. My taste buds are perfectly functional, thank you very much. That would taste horrible." Batgirl shook her head and shoved Nightwing's face away.

"Wait, taste buds?" Wally asks.

"Oh, right I didn't tell you." Nightwing smirks and leans across the counter. "Mission gone wrong, and a wacky backfiring spell. For the next three months, I can't taste anything."

"Cheater! That is so cheating, you set me up!"

Nightwing cackles, a terrifying sound wince his voice is deeper than his Robin days, as he walks away. "Too bad, Wally. You agreed to the terms. Have fun cleaning the Blüdhaven warehouse."


	3. Vocal Trauma - PART I

Kaldur is surprised when he enters the mountain for a relaxing day of Team bonding and, besides the drone of the TV-which is on some gossip channel M'gann likes to watch-everything is silent. He wanders the hallways, searching for his teammates. He checks the gym first, thinking he probably just can't hear them through the sound proof walls. But it's empty.

He heads to the kitchen next. If the TV is on to M'gann's show, then she's probably baking. But that's empty too. Although there is a tray of slightly burnt cookies on the counter.

Kaldur picks one up. They're not exactly cool, but they've obviously been sitting there a while. He almost doesn't notice the Team, and has already walked into the next hallway when he stops and slowly turns around. There, in the sitting room, is the rest of the Team.

They're sitting in a circle around the table. Robin and Wally are across from each other, staring at each other with unblinking eyes, and grave expressions. Artemis is sitting beside Robin, leaning against the couch and fiddling with an arrow. M'gann and Connor occupy the ends of the table. Connor's arms are crossed, and his expression is a strange mix of bored and annoyed. His eyebrow twitches every couple of seconds, and he lets out a huff of air. M'gann's eyes are shining brightly and she has both palms pressed flat on the table. She's smiling and obviously stifling a giggle.

After several awkward seconds, during which Kaldur isn't sure what to make of his Team, Connor finally looks up and makes eye contact. Kaldur raises an eyebrow, and Connor shrugs.

The others notice the movement, and Artemis and M'gann turn to him, while Wally an Robin remain stationary.

"Kaldur!" M'gann shouts excitedly. As if it's some magic word, Robin and Wally whip around, thrusting their hands at the Martian. In response, she claps her hands over her mouth and mutters a short "oops."

Connor opens his mouth to say something, but M'gann quickly shushes him.

"You can't give up! It's no fun if you do."

Connor sighs, but settles back down.

"M'gann, what is going on?" Kaldur asks.

"We're playing a game," she starts to explain. "Wally and Artemis were fighting again, and Wally said he never turns down a challenge. So Robin challenged him to something called a 'quiet contest'. I thought it would be fun, so we all joined."

Judging by M'gann's smile, and Connor and Artemis' grimaces, the Martian had somehow coerced them into playing. Kaldur knows for a fact that Connor would never turn down M'gann, but isn't sure how Artemis was dragged into things.

Kaldur's confusion only grows when, a few minutes later, he finds himself sitting down next to the others with his lips firmly shut. He isn't even sure how M'gann convinced him to do it, but it doesn't matter now. Robin is already flipping through a notebook to show Kaldur the rules.

_No whispering, talking, or shouting._

_No giggling, laughing, snickering, or cackling._

_No surprised yelps._

_No mental communication is allowed._

_No sign language is allowed._

_No writing to communicate is allowed._

_Sneezing and coughing is allowed, but can be ruled as fake and lead to disqualification._

_Winner is the last person to make a noise._

_Winner receives gloating rights, and a jar of Robin's secret cookies._

Instantly Kaldur understands how Artemis was roped into this. He's tried one of Robin's 'secret cookies' once, and they are the best he's ever tasted. Kaldur normally sticks to a strict diet for training, but he wants those cookies.

He is still a teenager, and thus allowed to have a few unhealthy snacks now and then. And those cookies would be worth it.

M'gann, now disqualified because of her earlier exclamation, moves to the kitchen to make another tray of cookies, chatting in the mean time.

"I think we'd been playing for almost an hour already when you came, Kaldur. I think Robin is probably going to win. No offense to the rest of you, but he is the best and staying silent, and was already quiet today. But do your best, Connor!"

Robin grins smugly and nudges Wally under the table. The speedster, obviously annoyed, slams his fists on the table and leans towards the acrobat. Kaldur considers stopping the impending fight, but decides it could be an excellent way to eliminate two opponents and instead settles back to watch.

Robin doesn't stop poking his friend with his foot, and Wally retaliats by jabbing the bird's shoulder. It's harmless annoyances, until Wally presses the crook of Robin's elbow. Kaldur just catches Robin's flinch before he kicks the table up against Wally's face.

Artemis jumps back, practically shoving a fist in her mouth so that she stays quiet, while Wally flops back and groans. Immediately, Robin's arm whips out and when Wally rises, it's too an accusing finger in his face. Wally shakes his head furiously, and starts to gesture to the table, then to Robin. Their staring contest resumes until they simultaneously turn to M'gann, the only member of the Team able to speak and delegate.

M'gann taps the wooden spoon in her hand against her chin and stares at the book of rules.

"Well, groaning isn't on the list of things not allowed, and you did try to annoy him into speaking." M'gann hmm's thoughtfully, then announces her decision. "Groaning isn't allowed from now on, but Wally stays in."

Wally pumps his fists excitedly while Robin scribbles ' _No groaning, grunting, or grumbling_ ' to the rules.

There are several uneventful minutes, during which M'gann throws a pan of cookies in the oven, and brings the older cookies to the others.

Kaldur takes the time to examine his teammates. While it is an odd game to bond over, it certainly looks like everyone is enjoying themselves. Even Connor seems to be scowling less after Robin and Wally's altercation. But Kaldur is most curious about what caused such a violent reaction from Robin. The acrobat's cape as draped over his shoulders, so his arms are hidden. But his movements aren't stiff like he's hiding an injury. At least not a serious one.

Kaldur decides to make it his mission to determine what was wrong with Robin, along with win the game.

"Artemis, is that you?" M'gann asks, bringing everyone's attention to the TV. Several photos of Artemis in her Gotham Academy uniform with a black-haired boy are flashing across the screen, followed by a video of the two together. They are obviously behind Gotham Academy. The boy is looking in the direction of the camera and his gaze slides seamlessly over the area. He turns and positions himself in front of the girl, who is slightly taller than him. Then reaches up and pulls her head down into what appears to be a kiss. After, the boy actually winks in the direction of the camera, then walks away.

Artemis' mouth is agape, and Wally is shaking with suppressed laughter. The gossip reporter appears on screen and starts talking about the story.

"Richard Grayson, the adopted son of Bruce Wayne, was spotted in an interesting situation last week. Grayson appears to have picked up some of his father's playboy techniques, used frequently in the billionaire's years before the adoption. Grayson frequently attends his father's events with a variety of girls on his arms, and may one day become a heartbreaker much the same as Mr. Wayne. A colleague of mine was able to approach Grayson and ask him about the situation, to which he answered that the girl 'was a good friend' and that 'they had known each other for several years now.'"

"That little troll!" Artemis shrieks as she shoots to her feet. Four hands whip out to point at her, while Wally keeps a firm hold over his mouth.

"He said I had something in my hair! When I get to school on Monday, I'm gonna-"

Artemis' threat is cut off by Wally, who can no longer hold back his laughter. He collapses against the floor, arms hugging his middle, and rolling around. Artemis gives Wally an anger fuelled kick, which jolts him out of his laughter, and storms off. As Wally comes down off his glee, he realizes that he's broken one of the rules of the game.

It's certainly comical, Kaldur muses as a wicked grin spreads across Robin's face, and he slowly raises an arm to point at Wally.

"What? No! You set that up!" Wally accuses, swatting Robin's hand away. "You're the one who put the TV on when we started!"

Robin just shakes his head and gives them all an innocent look, as if to ask how he could have known that would happen.

But Kaldur suspects there to be some truth in Wally's words.

"Sorry Wally, you're out," M'gann chimes from the kitchen window. Wally grumbles, snatches up the plate of cookies, and drops onto the couch behind Robin. Kaldur watches in amusement as Wally tries several times to use Robin's shoulders as a foot rest, and is grandly shoved away every time.

The game is now down to three players, all of which are high contenders. Kaldur knows that Connor has experience, spending hours in sullen silence. He himself isn't a very loud person and doesn't mind not talking for a while. Robin is a bit of a contradiction. Kaldur's youngest teammate can be very talkative at times, and he loved to play pranks and scare the others with his cackle. But he's also a professional at remaining undetected and staying silent. With Wally out of the game, Kaldur figures it's just a matter of time before Robin is distracted or tricked into talking.

It's not the most sportsmanly method, but the secret cookies are delicious. Robin won't tell them where he gets them, or if he or someone else makes them. Hence secret cookies. If Kaldur remembers correctly, M'gann has asked after the recipe a couple times.

But knowing that won't help him win.

The three boys sit stoically around the table, eyes wandering up to the TV where they are still talking about "the young playboy" Richard Grayson. Kaldur has heard the name before, since M'gann watches this channel frequently, and it seems to focus a lot on the Gotham elite. Apparently Gotham's villains aren't the only interesting people living in its dark streets. But that should be expected, when three relatively normal humans willingly prowl the crime ridden streets on a daily basis.

On the couch Wally starts humming and tapping the back of Robin's head with his foot. He's frowning at the TV, and when Artemis stomps back into the room, phone in hand, he sits up and smirks at Robin.

"Artie, you're friends with that Grayson kid, right?" Wally asks cheekily.

Artemis nods slowly. "Yeah. Why?"

"What do you think of him?"

"He's a troll, and a nerd. But I guess he's kinda cool," Artemis shrugs. "He is rich."

Wally sputters a moment, as if that's exactly not the response he was expecting. Robin's head bobs with silent laughter.

"Megs, what about you? You watch this show all the time." Wally turns on the couch to watch the Martian in the kitchen.

"I think he's really good looking. He was cute a couple years ago, but now that he's older..." M'gann's voice trails off with a light giggle, and Connor's scowl returns in full force. Robin, meanwhile, is blushing lightly while casting Wally a superior smile.

"Oh. Kal, Connor?"

Connor shrugs, never one for casual conversation, or celebrity gossip. Kaldur doesn't know how to respond, so he remains silent. He knows a little bit about Grayson, because of M'gann. He's a circus orphan adopted by the richest man in Gotham. He apparently has a lot of female friends, and is a genius.

Wally is obviously unsatisfied with all the answers he's been given, and Kaldur notices that he left Robin out of his questioning. Besides Artemis, Robin is the next most likely to know and have an opinion about Richard Grayson.

Kaldur stows that little bit of information away for later, and returns his focus to winning the game. Not that there's a lot to focus on.

Wally keeps on trying to annoy Robin into talking until Batman strides into the room.

"Do we have a mission?" M'gann asks.

"No. Robin, I found him."

Robin immediately leaps to his feet and moves to run forwards, but Wally grabs his cape and pulls him back.

"Wait a minute, what about the game? If you go, we won't be able to tell if you speak or not," Wally points out.

Robin shakes his head and gives Batman a pointed stare. They seem to hold a silent conversation, full of head tilts and shoulder shifts, before Batman nods.

"Fine, you can do it."

"Wait, wait, wait! Doesn't that count as speaking?" Wally asks, turning to M'gann.

"Robin didn't actually say anything, and they weren't using any form of telepathy. So no."

Wally groans, and Robin pulls two small communication devices from his belt. He attaches one to the collar if his cape, and slams the other down on the table.

"So what?" Wally asks, picking up the device. Robin flicks the one his cape, and Wally jumps as a soft thump sounds from the piece of tech in his hand.

"It's one of Robin's prototype bugs, designed to hear with a wider range. Your transceiver is at a higher volume setting so you can hear everything," Batman explains, since Robin can't. Wally accepts it, begrudgingly, and Robin leaves with Batman.

Robin's gone for a couple hours, and there isn't much to listen to for most of it. The normal sounds of fighting. Fists and feet thudding against hired goons. Grunts of effort, sharp winces of pain, and shouts in the background.

Bored of just listening, the others have gone off to do their own thing. M'gann and Connor went to 'work on the bikes', and Artemis headed back to Gotham to track down Dick Grayson. Kaldur isn't certain where Wally is, but chooses himself to stay by the transceiver.

It falls oddly silent for a minute or so before Kaldur hears it. A disturbing cackle. At first he thinks it's just Robin, and the acrobat got caught up in the excitement and forgot the game. But this laugh is different, and it only takes Kaldur a moment longer to figure out who it's coming from. Gotham's most infamous villain, the crown prince of crime, the Joker.

Kaldur shudders. It's easy to hear the madness in the jarring laugh.

"Boy Blunder, you're back! Wanted a little more quality time with Uncle J? Aw, are you giving me the silent treatment? But I wanted you to sing for me."

The sounds of fighting resume, mixed with Joker's laugh, and the occasional comment that's probably humorous to the clown.

"Lookie here, bird brain. I brought a little gift, just for. Laughing gas, extra strength! I know how much you enjoyed it yesterday. Why, you must have laughed yourself hoarse!"

The Joker cackles again and there's a sharp his. Kaldur can hear Robin's breathing hitch, then speed up.

Kaldur knows he has a rather firm disposition. He's obedient, level-headed, and calm. But what he hears next fills him with rage.

A horrible, strangled sound chokes the transceiver. It comes in jagged bursts, and Kaldue is horrified to realize that it's Robin laughing. Or trying to. Every couple of coarse chuckles is accented by a sharp thud and a gasp. Between each thump, the Joker starts to speak.

"Don't. You. Know. That birds. Are supposed. To sing!" There's a loud clang, something heavy and metal dropping onto concrete.

"What's wrong bird boy? You're normally so eager for your duet with Mr. Crowbar. Joker venom got your tongue?"

There's a cackle, a crash, and a shriek of delight.

"Batsy, you came! I knew you would."

The fight is finished quickly. Within minutes the Joker is dramatically lamenting over being sent back to Arkham.

"Robin, we're going back to the cave."

Silence. The acrobat is still playing the game.

"You can go to the mountain once your injuries are dealt with. I've already administered the antidote, but this latest dose will have damaged your vocal chords more. Your voice won't be coming back any time soon."

There's a heavy sigh, and Kaldur is amazed. Robin sounds nothing more than a little disappointed, despite what just occurred. Kaldur listens patiently as the bats return to their cave, treat Robin's injuries, and Robin is given the okay to return to the mountain. Kaldur decided to leave the room for a moment, and when he returns, Robin is there.

The youngest team member is no longer in uniform. Instead he's wearing his standard green hoodie and a pair of loose fitting pants. Besides a bruise along his cheekbone, he looks unharmed. But Kaldur knows better.

Robin is resting his chin on the table, and hasn't noticed Kaldur yet.

"Robin," the Atlantian says.

The bird's head pops up and he looks at Kaldur, raising an accusing finger.

"My king called to speak with me, and so I forfeited," Kaldur lies. Robin knows it's a lie. Kaldur knows that Robin knows. Neither of them say anything.

Instead Robin picks up the transceiver, turns it off, and raises and eyebrow at Kaldur.

"I'm afraid that we left the transceiver unattended for some time. If you spoke, we have no proof."

Again, an obvious lie. Again, neither mentions it. But Robin does give him a grateful smile. There's a gust of wind, and Wally is standing in the middle of the living room.

"Rob, you're back! So did you lose?" Wally's talking about the game, but Robin's shoulders still fall. He shakes his head, and Kaldur can see that the movement is stiff. It's possible that the Dark Squire injured his neck at some point.

"Aw, man," Wally groans in disappointment.

"I, on the other hand, did lose," Kaldur informs the speedster.

"Seriously? I don't know how that's even possible. Guess it's just down to Rob and Supey."

"No," Connor grunts as he enters with M'gann. "I lose too."

The superclone actually sounds a little disappointed. Kaldur understand, though. The secret cookies are really good.

"Them Robin wins." M'gann smiles and claps her hands together.

"But he gets to eat those cookies all the time, now way that's fair, Wally groans and trails after the Martian as she enters the kitchen.

"If you want cookies, you can have these. It's a new recipe," M'gann says. Wally cheers, grabs a few, and shoves them into his mouth.

"Dese are weawy goof," Wally mumbles through his full mouth. Kaldur decides to try one for himself, and takes a bite. It really is good. No offence to M'gann, but much better than normal. Not that her normal cookies were bad, just usually a little burnt.

They also taste familiar.

Kaldur looks at Robin, who somehow snuck over to the kitchen and back to the couch, stealing a few cookies for himself. Robin is smirking as he munches on his snack. He raises a cookie to Kaldur and winks.

Kaldur smirks back, now knowing exactly where M'gann had gotten her new recipe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So speech isn't a sense, but think of this is a bonus story


	4. Blindness - PART I

Robin was dead, and Dick Grayson was blind.

There was a new upstart villain on Gotham, and he'd decided to make a flashy debut by kidnapping the son of the richest man in Gotham. He followed what seemed to be the traditional Gotham villain rules, in that he was certifiable, and utilized some homemade chemical compound as a weapon. No one could be absolutely certain about what happened that day, but they could guess.

Dick was grabbed off the street while he was walking home-some people said he was taken right from school, others say from the manor itself. He was taken to a warehouse by the docks, or an abandoned office building, or a derelict apartment complex. No one doubted that the young heir was bound, and tightly. Possibly drugged.

Batman was out of state, fighting some League villains in the south. It had been all over the news earlier that day. It was assumed that Robin arrived on scene an hour or two after the initial kidnapping. Afterwards there weren't any witnesses that could recall seeing the young vigilante in the area, but it was commonly acknowledged that the villain had already been thoroughly bruised before Batman arrived.

The villain was deposited in the street in front of the police station, on the verge of death. He was sent to Arkham in a full body cast. Dick Grayson was rushed to emergency. After a week of no Robin sightings, Commissioner Gordon was informed by a solemn and grieving Batman that Robin was dead. The next day, upon Dick Grayson's hospital release, it was revealed that the former acrobat had been blinded.

That was three years ago, and a lot had happened since then. The title of Robin had been passed down twice, the second Robin having fallen at the hands of the Joker. Dick Grayson switched to homeschooling and finished his studies even earlier than expected. He still appeared at charity events every now and then, but had otherwise withdrawn from the public eye. Until a few months ago, when celebratory gossip emphasized heavily on a falling out between Bruce Wayne and his eldest son. It resulted in Dick moving out of the manor, despite only being sixteen-nearly seventeen. Dick hadn't been seen since then, and no one could be sure where he went. But his disappearance was eclipsed by something possibly far more interesting.

Blüdhaven, sister city of Gotham, the place even Batman considered for a lost cause, had a vigilante protector. Gang headquarters were being attacked, and drug rings were broken up. Midnight muggings interrupted and common criminals bound and left at police stations across the city.

For the longest time there were no witnesses to this mysterious figure. It was like when Batman first appeared. Moving shadows and light steps across the rooftops, nothing more. Finally, one of the people this hero saved was able to catch a glimpse of him.

"Please, let me thank you!"

The thud of boots on a fire escape, the pale light of the moon, and a dark blue bird emblazoned on a black uniform.

Nightwing had finally revealed himself. The public was sated, now having a name and a uniform to go along with the deeds. But a certain team of former sidekicks and junior heroes wanted more. They wanted to meet Nightwing, because he didn't look more than seventeen, and could make a great addition to the Team.

Which leads to today.

The Team is gathered outside the Mountain, waiting to welcome their newest potential member. Batman stands with them. Only recently had the Team started to gain independence from the League, but Batman insisted on seeing new members for himself.

The rumbling of an engine announced Nightwing's arrival, and in no time at all, a sleek black and blue motorcycle bursts through the trees. It skids, and Batman steps forwards, almost looking worried, until the rider plants his foot and nimbly flips off.

"Everyone, this is-"

"Nightwing!" Batman is cut off by Kid Flash, who runs forwards and tackles Nightwing into a hug. The rest of the Team is surprised, because they've never met Nightwing before, but Wally obviously knows him. M'gann can feel there's something familiar about his mind, but isn't sure what, or why.

"Hey, KF. Been a while," Nightwing smirks.

"Too long, you dick." There's a moment of silence, then both heroes burst out laughing. It takes them a minute or two, but they eventually sober up and Wally turns serious.

"But seriously, dude. How do you...?" The speedster starts to gesture, then stops abruptly with an embarrassed chuckle.

"It's okay, and I," Nightwing makes his own half-hearted gesture, although it looks nothing like Wally's, "just fine."

"Right."

Batman clears his throat and draws their attention.

"Uh, sorry Bats," Wally says. He quickly whispers something to Nightwing, to which the new hero shakes his head, then speeds back over to the Team.

"As I said, this is Nightwing, the newest candidate for the Team." Batman repeats, tossing a glare in Wally's direction. "You already know what that means."

A simple protocol, started after Aquagirl and Tempest joined. A candidate spends a day at Mount Justice, joining any training exercises, and minor missions should they come up. At the end of the day, it's ip to the candidate and Team leader to decide if they will join.

"Of course. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Nightwing. I am the leader of this team, Aqualad, but you can call me Kaldur." Kaldur introduces himself, one by one the present members do the same. M'gann, Connor, Artemis, Beast Boy-or BB, or Garfield, or Gar-Rocket, Wally, and Zatanna. Nightwing chuckles softly the whole time, and it was obvious that Wally knew why. But neither explain it.

Zatanna's introduction is followed by a best of silence, during which Nightwing frowns and told his head, as if he's waiting for something.

"Where's Robin?" Nightwing's question, and anger, is directed at Batman. Although he isn't looking directly at him.

"He's not coming to the mountain today," Batman states.

Nightwing's frown deepens. "Grounded?"

"Homework."

"Or you don't want him to see me yet. Better yet, you don't want me to see him." Nightwing's voice is laced with sarcasm, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Wally has a hand over his mouth to suppress his laughter.

Batman glares at Nightwing, but it doesn't appear to have any effect. "If you join the Team, then you'll meet him the next time you're at the mountain."

With that Batman leaves, stalking into the mountain and most likely heading back to the Batcave. Nightwing is glaring at the same spot as before.

"So, that was awkward," Wally says, breaking through the tense air.

"You should have been there at Christmas. I think Robin cried."

The Team, equal parts confused and concerned, did the next logical thing. They filed back into the mountain. As they descended through the front door, their code armed and designations rang out through the halls. Wally and Nightwing hang back a moment.

"Where's Garth?" Nightwing asks.

"He left, after Tula died," Wally mumbles. "Are you really not going to tell them?"

"No way. It's more fun if they figure it out themselves."

"Dude, I really don't think they will, Bats said-"

"Wally. We were a Team for a year. They may not be master detectives, but I think they should recognize me. I'm different, yeah, but it'll happen eventually."

Wally looks conflicted, but Nightwing has already starts walking forwards. He feels a warm tingle as beams of light spread from the walls and scan his person. It's only then that he remembers something crucial about the zeta beam designation system.

His name may have changed.

**Nightwing B-0-1**

But his number hasn't.

Nightwing chuckles dryly as the echo fades. He can't hear the sound of footsteps anymore, and knows the Team had stopped walking.

"Or they'll find out right now."

* * *

There are several seconds of stunned silence, the sound of running feet, then Nightwing finds himself being tackled into a tight hug.

"Robin!" M'gann cries. And she's really crying. There's a lot of tears, and not just from M'gann. Zatanna is crying too, so is Artemis, which was unexpected. Nightwing thinks he even heard Kaldur sniff. Nothing definitive from Connor, but Nightwing figures he must be emotional too.

"Um, guys?" Nightwing feels like he's being crushed, and he wiggles his way free of the group hug. But he can feel that the Team is still close.

"R-Robin, Nightwing. We thought you were dead." M'gann sniffs, here tears drying.

"What?" Nightwing stiffens.

"Batman told us you were dead," Connor explains.

"Well, yeah. Robin was dead. I couldn't fight, he wouldn't let me. But I wasn't dead."

"He just said Robin was dead. If you were alive, how come you never came?"

"I wasn't Robin anymore, I couldn't. It could have compromised identities. I thought you knew, Wally did." The anger in Nightwing's voice was powerful. Garfield, who had only met the first Robin once before, finds it hard to connect the darkly dressed vigilante before him with the hero he once knew.

"I couldn't say anything, Bats said I couldn't. It was bad enough I couldn't even see you." Nightwing can practically hear Wally shaking his head. He may not have seen the red headed hero in three years, but still knew his mannerisms by heart.

"Don't worry, Walls. It doesn't even take that much to make me stop seeing you." Nightwing laughs, trying to lighten the mood. Inside he's pissed at Bruce, but he'll deal with that later.

"Dude," Wally says. "That's dark."

"Does this mean no training today?" Garfield asks.

"Sorry, Gar. Training is important." M'gann laughs while the green boy groans. By this point, everyone knows that Nightwing will be joining the Team, even if they haven't done anything yet. They can see it in the former Boy Wonder's smile.

Nightwing joins them in training, and it's just like old times. Although his fighting style seems to have changed. It takes a while for the others to notice, and it's actually Artemis who sees it first. They're sparring, putting on a show for the others. Neither of them are going all out, but Artemis remembers how their matches used to go, and is putting up a good effort. She doesn't hesitate at all to use her bow. It's after the first arrow flies that she catches it. When Nightwing was Robin, he would start to dodge before the arrow was even released, performing some showy, acrobatic trick in the meantime. She never managed to hit him. She still isn't, but the flare from his moves are gone. In fact, it's almost like he's dodging at the last minute.

Connor, watching from the sidelines with all his Kryptonian glory, sees it next. But it's mostly just because he's used to observing. Everyone else is caught up in the intensity of the fight.

M'gann notices third. Nightwing and Artemis finishing sparring—Nightwing won—and the black and blue vigilante insists that someone else step up to face him. M'gann complies, floating forwards and gently setting down on the training pad. The computerized voice announces her presence, and they begin. Out of habit M'gann sticks to the air. She's been practicing her hand-to-hand combat lately, in case she ends up in a situation where her Martian abilities fail, and decides to show Nightwing what she can do.

It's blaringly obvious to everyone that Nightwing is more skilled than she is, but that spurs the Martian. Fighting someone as experienced as him is a great lesson. Her feet never touch the ground, and it's about five minutes into the session that she notices how still Nightwing is. When neither of them are attacking, he seems to be focusing intently, standing firm and ready with his head tilted in her general direction. But he's never looking directly at her.

M'gann loses, as expected, and Wally jokes that Nightwing should let someone else train. But he actually sounds a little concerned, which leads to Nightwing hissing at him sharply.

"Wally, I'm fine. I fight in Blüdhaven all the time, I'm way more familiar here."

Only Connor hears it.

But Nightwing doesn't fight again, because Wally is right and the others do need to train as well.

Once training is done, they just hang out. Swap stories. Nightwing tells them what it's like protecting Blüdhaven, which everyone knows is worse than Gotham when it comes to crime rates, and in exchange they tell him of the missions they've been in the past three years. It's only a little bit of a surprise when they find out Nightwing already knows about most of them, even though they were covert. Being away from the mountain didn't stop him from hacking their systems and keeping an eye on them.

Nightwing's old room is somehow brought into the conversation, and M'gann tells him it's mostly untouched. Nightwing can practically hear the blush in her voice as she says it was like a monument, since they couldn't actually raise one to him.

He decides to go there, for old time's sake. And since it will probably become his room again. He insists on doing it alone, and the others let him.

Wally, being Wally, forgets about his best friend's disability for a moment, so no one thinks to tell the bird that a few of the hallways have been changed over the years. Why would they?

Five minutes pass, and Connor seems to perk up, as if he heard something. Raquel asks what's up, and Connor says he heard Nightwing swear. But the location didn't sound right.

Finally, Wally remembers.

"Oh, shit." The speedster jumps to his feet and disappears down the hall. The others, curious, are quick to follow. They pass the branch in the hallway that leads to the rooms, which used to be much farther down, and continue ahead towards the storage area. They stop once Connor is close enough to hear them clearly, and M'gann sends the conversation to the rest of the team through a mental link. It's snooping, and a bit of an invasion of privacy, but M'gann had become more comfortable with that over time.

"Dude, I'm so, so, _so_ sorry that I didn't tell you. I totally forgot. And you're, like, a bat and you always seem to know things, so I didn't even think of telling you the mountain had changed. There was a bit of an incident, Supey got angry, we had to do some rearranging. But I totally should have—"

"Wally, calm down. It's fine. It's my fault for thinking this place would have stayed the same. I was too comfortable with the surroundings."

"But what if we were on a mission, in a warehouse, and I didn't tell you the right hallway, and then you'd get lost, and you wouldn't be able to get out and—"

" _Wally_. I would be fine. On a mission, I would have downloaded blueprints and listened to a readout beforehand."

"But you—"

"Can function perfectly fine as a vigilante, thank you very much. It's been three years, Wally. I've adjusted, I don't _need_ eyes anymore. I've been operation out of Blüdhaven for four months and being blind hasn't stopped me yet."

The young heroes listening in can't help it, they gasp. At least a few of them do. The conversation immediately stops, and they know they've been found. Since there's no longer a point in hiding, they step around the corner to see the two friends.

Wally and Nightwing are standing in the middle of the hall. Wally is facing the blue bird, but looking over his shoulder. Nightwing himself is angled, facing neither Wally nor the Team. His head doesn't turn towards them, but the whites of his mask narrow. Connor, being the bravest and most lacking in tact, speaks first.

"You're blind?"


	5. Vocal Trauma - PART II

Robin wins the quiet contest, and three days pass without his presence in the mountain. Kaldur isn’t bothered too much by this. The youngest team member is notorious for frequently breaking contact. At first Kaldur assumed this was because of Gotham business, but over time Robin had hinted that he actually has a very active civilian life.

Kaldur’s never let the mystery of Robin’s real identity bother him before. The bats are secretive, and the Atlantian knows it’s more than just a matter of trust. Batman’s paranoia is legendary among heroes and Kaldur knows that, if he actually had a secret identity, he would probably limit the number of people who know it. But now, as he lingers in the saltwater pool of the mountain, he finds himself pondering on Robin’s other life, and the kinds of problem being a vigilante can cause.

Robin lost his voice because of an incident with the Joker while in uniform. It stands to reason that his civilian’s loss of voice can’t be explained the same way. But in the world of crime fighting a lost voice is something so minor. What does Robin about his other injuries? The ones that can’t just be hidden or explained away?

If Kaldur gets injured, he doesn’t have to hide it. All of Atlantis knows who he is. Wally is a speedster and can heal at an exceptional rate. Artemis’ style of fighting is long range, so she isn’t always in the direct line of fire, and can often avoid injury. Connor is invulnerable, and M’gann can hide her injuries by shape shifting. It doesn’t make them go away, but it prevents civilians from seeing them. Robin, though, is always in the thick of things. Kaldur may not like it, but the acrobat is always eager to jump into action. He’s certainly skilled enough for it, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get injured. How many times has Robin had to explain away a bruise, or a broken arm, or a noticeable scar as some kind of accident? It can’t be easy.

Kaldur sighs and dives deeper into the water, his mind occupied with thoughts of a young Gotham boy accused of being clumsy, accident prone, or even abused because he saves people’s lives on a daily basis. He thinks of speaking to Wally about this, since the speedster obviously knows Robin’s identity, but decides against it. Kaldur doesn’t want to seem like he’s prying, and Wally would more than likely tell Robin about his inquiries.

But there’s nothing wrong with contemplating what he already knows.

Robin doesn’t actively speak about his family, but Kaldur assumes that Batman is a relative of some kind, most likely his father. There’s also a good chance that Robin’s mother is dead, and he doesn’t have any siblings—Robin mentioned once that he would love to have a brother or sister. While the information was intriguing, it was hardly helpful. The only child of a single parent, it’s not exactly a rare home situation.

As he swims back to the surface, Kaldur finds his thoughts drifting to Richard Grayson, of all people, and the quiet contest. Robin must have known that Artemis went to school with Grayson, since it was obvious he intentionally chose that channel. Although there is the problem of how Robin knew what they would be talking about. But if Robin knew the young billionaire, that would explain. Although Wally purposefully didn’t question the bird about Grayson, meaning Robin might not know the kid.

Kaldur sighs again and finally drags himself out of the pool, the water sliding easily off his Atlantian skin. Simply thinking about it is getting him nowhere. Kaldur is reconsidering speaking to Wally when he enters the lounge. No one is in the room, although the TV is on. Probably left by Connor or M’gann before they went to school.

Gotham Academy fills the screen, and a handful of students are outside for lunch. The camera zooms in on a girl with long blonde hair that Kaldur immediately recognizes at Artemis. The reporter on screen starts calling to her, but Artemis gives them a sharp glare before looking away and rounding on Richard Grayson. Kaldur can see the wide grin on Richard’s face, and it actually seems familiar. Artemis is obviously angry, she’s practically shaking, but Richard just looks like he’s trying not to laugh. He gives the archer a reassuring pat, the jogs over to the camera crew.

The reporter immediately starts questioning him, but Richard just shakes his head. He pulls a card out of his pocket and holds it up to the camera so the text is plainly visible to anyone watching.

_Sorry, I can’t speak. I have acute laryngitis._

The reporter looks dismayed, now unable to get the interview she was probably craving, but perks up again when Richard pulls out a whiteboard and a marker. He writes something across it quickly, then shows it to the camera.

 _My friend wants to me to clarify that we are_ just _friends, and I wasn’t kissing her._

The reporter resumes her question, while Richard erases his statement and scribbles something else. He tilts his head back, so that Artemis and another girl are visible in the background

_Besides, you know I like redheads._

Richard winks at the camera and turns away.

Oddly enough, it’s not the laryngitis that gives Kaldur his final hint, even though the coincidental timing lines up perfectly with Robin’s own loss of voice. It certainly helps to tip the scales, but the thing that gives Kaldur his lightbulb moment is the sweet treat Richard pulls from his pocket. It’s not that odd for a teenager to bring cookies for his lunch, and it shouldn’t have meant anything at all to the Atlantian watching broadcast. But as Richard takes a bite out of the cookie, and a familiar, blissful smile slips onto his face, Kaldur finally knows who Robin is.

As the broadcast ends, Kaldur realizes there’s something ridiculously hilarious about the whole situation, and he can’t help himself. Standing alone in the mountain, with the image of startlingly bright blue eyes and a winking Robin in mind, Kaldur laughs.


	6. Hyposmia - PART I

In all his years as a hero, Nightwing had never really considered how useful a sense of smell was. He usually relied on his hearing, sight, and touch more. Smell hardly ever came into play. Because of this, he didn’t think twice about going on a mission when he was recovering from a bad cold.

“You sure you don’t want me to go instead?” Barbara, decked out in her full Batgirl uniform, asked.

“Oh, not you too,” Nightwing groaned as he pressed his mask on. “Kaldur specifically asked for me to partner with the kid for this mission.”

“Right, you haven’t met the new guy. He’s cute.”

Nightwing glanced at his partner with a raised brow.

“Dick, don’t be weird! He’s a kid, he’s a _cute kid_ ,” Batgirl protested.

“No names in uniform. And if he ends up having a crush on you, I’ll totally tell him.” Nightwing grinned.

“You can’t do that, it’s so mean!”

“I don’t know, Jason’s reaction was pretty adorable.”

“Shut up, that’s it. You just lost your date to the gala next week.” Batgirl cross her arms, turned around and haughtily threw up her head. Nightwing’s laughter was interrupted by a loud sneeze.

“You’re really sure you’re fine to go?” Batgirl’s arms dropped to her side as she gave him worried glance.

“I’m so whelmed, totally feeling the aster, and ready to get traught.”

Batgirl rolled her eyes at the butchered English, which Nightwing rarely did anymore.

“Relax, BG. It was just a cold. Fever’s gone, and other than a bit of a stuffed nose, I’m _fine_.”

“Fine. But if you die because a _sneeze_ gave you away, I’ll toss you in the Lazarus Pit just so I can embarrass you back to death. Deal?”

“Deal.” Nightwing grinned and slapped Batgirl’s outstretched hand. Having received her blessing, he headed out to the Gotham zeta tube and beamed to the mountain. He wasn’t sure what to expect of the Team’s newest recruit.

Garfield Logan, the boy the original Team (minus Kaldur) met in Bialya. M’gann’s blood transfusion did more than save his life and turn his eyes green. It also gave him Martian shape shifting abilities. When Nightwing was out of commission, something big happened in Bialya and the kid was brought to Happy Harbour to live at Mount Justice. From the sound of things, he had all but begged to be put on the Team. This would be his first mission.

Nightwing stifled a sneeze and a curse as he materialized in the mountain. It would be kind of pathetic for Nightwing, first protégé of Batman, master of stealth and all out ninja, to be caught on a covert mission because he _sneezed_.

He pawed at his nose and grinned at Kaldur, who was waiting for him in the mission room.

“Nightwing, it is good you’re feeling better.”

“You’re telling me. Batman wouldn’t let me out of the house, I was going crazy.” Nightwing stretched for emphasis, then looked around. They were the only ones in the room. “So where’s Beast Boy?”

“M’gann is providing last minute advice,” Kaldur answered with a small grin, and Nightwing mirrored the expression almost instantly. Of all the original Team members, she was easily the most emotionally expressive (Wally was a close second). She also worried the most. Nightwing, as the formerly youngest Team member, had been the subject of M’gann’s sisterly concern on many occasions. He knew exactly what Gar was faced with right about then.

“ _Okay_ , sis, I’ll be _fine._ I’m gonna be with _the_ Nightwing!” A young voice echoed down the hall.

Nightwing turned to Kaldur, his grin widening, and mouthed silently to him. “ _The_ Nightwing?”

“He is a fan,” Kaldur said.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, don’t do anything reckless,” M’gann said as she emerged into the mission room. Walking beside her was a rather simian looking Garfield Logan, and he was completely green. That wasn’t something Nightwing expected, but it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hey, Garfield. You ready for the mission?” Nightwing asked. Garfield suddenly stopped talking and looked over at the older hero. There was a moment of silence, then his eyes went comically wide and he ran over at a speed that would impress the Flash.

“You’re Nightwing!” Garfield shouted.

“I know.” Nightwing smirked.

“It’s so cool to meet you, sir.”

“Sir?” Nightwing’s question went ignored as Garfield continued to rant.

“Although, we’ve met before, because you’re the first Robin. But you’re so cool now! I mean, you were cool then, but you protect _Blüdhaven_. So I guess it’s cool to meet you again, Nightwing, sir.” Garfield beamed up at him.

“Just Nightwing’s fine, you don’t have to call me sir.”

“Noted.”

“You know the mission?” Kaldur interrupted, placing a hand on Nightwing’s shoulder.

“Of course. I’ll brief Beast Boy on the way over.” Nightwing smirked and crossed his arms, turning to the new hero in front of him. “You know how to drive a motorcycle?” 

* * *

Nightwing wasn’t too surprised to find out that Beast Boy _didn’t_ know how to ride a motorcycle, but sometimes it was easy to forget that not everyone learned to drive when they were nine years old. Instead, Beast Boy morphed into a monkey and clung to Nightwing’s shoulder as they drove to Providence. The mission looked to be an easy one. Enter the facility, find a computer, gather the intel, and get out without being seen.

They ditched the motorcycle at the edge of the city and took to the rooftops. If it weren’t for the fact that Beast Boy had a beak instead of lips, Nightwing was sure his com unit would be spouting a steady stream of nervous chatter. He wouldn’t blame the younger boy either. Beast Boy had training, but it wasn’t nearly as extensive as Nightwing’s had been when he was finally allowed on patrol.

When Kaldur informed him of the mission, Nightwing’s first thought had been why wasn’t M’gann going? Garfield was basically her little brother, she’d go over the top to make sure he’s safe – not that Nightwing wouldn’t do more than his best. It didn’t take him long to figure out the reasoning behind Aqualad’s decision.

Beast Boy needed a chance prove himself, just like they did at Cadmus all those years ago. M’gann might coddle him too much. But Nightwing? He understood that need in a way no one else could. He had always been the youngest, the smallest, the weakest looking hero, and had to prove himself time and time again. When he became Batman’s sidekick, when he met the League, when they formed the Team. The months leading up to his big fight with Batman, which led to him becoming Nightwing in the first place. If anyone was going to give Beast Boy a chance, it would be him.

“That’s the place?” Beast Boy asked. Nightwing had stopped at the edge of a roof, and the changeling flew down to perch beside him before morphing back to human.

“That’s it,” Nightwing confirmed.

“It looks really normal. I thought it’d be, like a—”

“Warehouse?” Nightwing chuckled. “It’s true, lots of villains use those for the space. Especially if they’re in the drug business. But some are smarter, and a little more subtle. Whoever we’re after, they bought this building through legal means, with dirt money.”

“Not all bad guys are obvious. Noted.” Beast Boy nodded. “Will there be people inside?”

“Probably, but not a lot. This is in the middle of the city. Most activity would take place during the day to avoid suspicion.” Nightwing focused on the holocomputer in his glove and started working his way through the security system. He didn’t hack as much as Nightwing, but always kept a spare hologlove lying around should it become necessary. He made quick work of it, bypassing the firewalls, setting the cameras on a loop, overriding the motion sensors, and downloading blueprints for the building.

Beast Boy was fidgeting, the tip of his tail twitching and flicking as he waited for his orders.

“What kind of animals can you change into?”

“Anything I can think of. But I-I’m not really good with big animals yet.” Beast Boy’s head dipped, his voice wavering. Nightwing made a note to ask about the circumstances that led to the boy living at the Mountain when the mission was done.

“Fly over to the top floor, look in the windows. Find a room with a closed door and no visible lights if possible, then signal me,” Nightwing said. Beast Boy nodded, and soon enough a little green bird was flying to the floor indicated. It was barely thirty seconds before a soft twittering reached Nightwing’s ears. The green finch was hopping along a window sill, flapping its wings. Nightwing fired his line and swung over, seamlessly opening the window for both of them to slide inside. It looked like a storage room with several file cabinets and bookshelves filled with binders. There was no light under the door and he couldn’t hear any movement in the hall.

“Keep your com channel open, and start browsing through some of the files here. We can’t take any physical files, in case someone notices them missing, but look for familiar names. I’m going to find a computer. Tell me if you find something,” Nightwing instructed. Beast Boy nodded, and the older hero was a little amazed at how obedient he was, in comparison to the first time they met. He certainly hadn’t been so compliant during his early years as Robin. Or any time since then, really.

Waiting a moment to make sure the hallway was clear, Nightwing slipped out of the room. The facility was originally an office building, before the current owner repurposed it. Because of this, there were a lot of potential locations for a main office. Nightwing relied on his own business experience and went to the largest room on the floor, which would have been the boss’ office, and probably still was. His hunch proved to be correct, and Nightwing wasted no time plugging into the computer and skimming through the files.

One minute later he realized something very important. There were a lot of files, and a lot of information, but nothing actually useful. All this was doing was wasting time.

“Beast Boy, report,” Nightwing said. He scowled at the computer screen and absently rubbed his nose.

“ _It’s just business proposals, and employee files. But they’re old, and some of it’s from Gotham,_ ” Beast Boy answered.

“Like what?”

“ _Um… this one says Jonathon Rance from the Elizabeth Institute?_ ”

Nightwing frowned. There was something about both names that were familiar to him, he just couldn’t place it. But he was getting the nagging feeling that this was all a set up, and it would be best for them to get out of there as soon as possible.

“I’m heading back to you, be ready to leave.”

“ _Finally. Not that being on a mission isn’t really cool, but this place kind of smells funny_.”

Nightwing froze. “Funny how?”

“ _Kind of bitter, and a little… smoky_. _Animal senses suck sometimes_.” Beast Boy’s heavy sigh echoed in his ear, and Nightwing found himself running through the halls, but something was wrong. It wasn’t right, none of it was right. It was like the layout of the building had changed. Beast Boy was still talking.

“ _You know, it smells sort of oily too. Kind of – kind of like car oil, just like-”_

Nightwing burst through the door that should have led to the file room, but instead he was back in the office. He could almost smell something too, now, which shouldn’t have been possible. He couldn’t smell anything. It was sort of metallic. He could taste it too. It was like iron, like blood.

“ _I-I don’t, why, why are you here? You, you’re gone. I saw you._ ”

Nightwing felt something rising in his chest. Panic? He didn’t panic, he shouldn’t be panicking. It was fear.

“Jonathon Rance, _Professor_ Rance, _Jonathon Crane!_ ” It was an alias Scarecrow had used before. And the Elizabeth Institute, Arkham Asylum’s full name was actually the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. “Beast Boy, it’s fear toxin, you need to get out of the building _now_!”

Nightwing ran at the window, intent on bursting through the glass. Instead he rammed shoulder first into a solid wall. He wasn’t in the office, at least not the same one as before. But this one was still familiar. Brick walls, old wooden desk. Suddenly it felt like he was nine years old again, staring up at the high backed chair where a Commissioner Gordon sat, informing him his parents were dead and he couldn’t go back to the circus.

“ _M-mom, why are you saying that?”_

“That stupid kid, I’ll kill him!”

Nightwing whirled around and saw the silhouette of Tony Zucco being pulled along by another police offer go by the door window. But Zucco wouldn’t be caught for another month. No, that wasn’t right. Zucco had been caught years ago. He ran forwards and shouldered the door open, spilling into the hallway.

Zucco was there, wild eyed and struggling against some unseen force. When the mobster turned and spotted Nightwing, he struggled harder.

“You’ll see them soon, bird boy!”

Nightwing scrambled back, but stopped when he bumped into something. A cold, mangled hand fell on his shoulder.

“You’ll see us soon,” a soft, familiar voice crooned in his ear. Nightwing swatted the hand away and ran, not even bothering to look back. He knew what would be there. Five twisted corpses, stumbling behind him and begging for his life.

“ _No, stop it, don’t!_ ”

There was a window up ahead, and Nightwing suddenly didn’t care that he was fifteen stories up and only fields beyond the glass, nowhere for him to grapple to. He just needed to escape. He jumped, crashing through the glass, and tumbled to the floor. His roll was halted by a metal filing cabinet, the handle jabbing into his spine.

The pain jolted Nightwing enough to momentarily shake the hallucination. He wasn’t in Gotham, or at the circus. Zucco wasn’t there, and the corpses hobbling towards him weren’t real. He was in the storage room and Beast Boy was sobbing in the corner.

“Gar, hold on.” He didn’t care about proper names right now. Nightwing fumbled with his utility belt. He only had one antidote with him right now. This wasn’t his Gotham belt, he wasn’t stocked for dealing with Scarecrow of all people. But he was used to fear toxin, and his body would work through it much faster. He pressed the needle into Beast Boy’s arm, injecting the antidote. Beas Boy stopped shaking, and his breathing became more even. But he wasn’t conscious, and the corpses were so close, he could feel there hot breath on his neck and their hands on his face.

Nightwing panicked and lashed out. The corpse – singular, just one, and not even a corpse – stumbled back but caught himself on a cabinet. Nightwing took in the crudely made mask and the plaid shirt.

“Interesting, very interesting. I don’t think you’ve ever reacted this way before,” Scarecrow droned, rubbing his jaw. “I’d like to see more, but someone has _big_ plans for you.”

The thematic villain pulled a device from his pocket. “I wonder, are you scared of bombs, _bird boy?_ ”

Nightwing didn’t even remember seeing Scarecrow push the button, just the sound of the building crashing down all around them.


	7. Anaphia - PART I

When Robin woke up, he couldn’t feel anything. He knew the floor was there, he could see it. Same with his uniform. His cape was pulled around his body, but the sensation of fabric shifting as he moved was absent. Even the feeling of movement itself was gone.

It was the strangest thing he’d ever felt. Or never felt, technically. That was a little more accurate. Even better, it was the strangest thing he’d ever _un_ felt. Although that didn’t sound right. That made it seem like he had taken back the feeling, like he’d unfriended the sensation of touch. He could have been _a_ feeling. Without feeling. Yeah, that sounded right.

But maybe now wasn’t the best time to manipulating the English language. It certainly wasn’t helping him escape his cell. Robin looked around the room, assessing his surroundings. It reminded him of the old Gotham PD holding cells. One solid stone wall and the back, the other three made of thick, black bars, and a solid sheet of metal for the ceiling. It was all very gothic, very pre-Gordon Gotham. When he became commissioner he got rid of those types of holding cells, replacing them with proper, more secure areas. But one still remained in the first precinct building. Robin had seen it a few times. He’d even found himself locked inside it once, which is why knew – if this cell was the same – it would have the same weak point.

Well, maybe not a weak point, but a serious design flaw. All Robin had to do was grab one of his lock picks, slip his arm though the bars, and pick the door open. The gap between the third and fourth bars of the door were slightly farther apart than the others, granting just enough room for Robin’s lean arm. The locks were elementary, not meant to hold up against a serious barrage. These holding cells originally sat in plain view of the bullpen, where every cop in the building could watch those holed up inside. And back then, Gotham cops were all too eager to use excessive force should someone try to escape.

It was simple, if he had his supplies. Robin’s hand dropped to any empty waist, and he looked down to see his utility belt gone, along with his gloves and boots. Normally he could feel the familiar weight, but with his sense of touch out of wack, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He cursed silently, berating himself for not checking sooner. A brief scan of his surroundings revealed there weren’t any lock picking substitutes.

No matter. This lock was a decade old, and likely neglected. With a few strong kicks, the lock snapped and the door swung open with a resounding crash. The Dark Squire would have preferred to make no noise, but escape was vital. If only he could remember why he was there in the first place.

The room was laid out just like the old precinct buildings. Holding cell against the wall, a smattering of desks for the beat cops, and a short stairway leading up to the detective’s desks and captain’s office. But there were no windows, no hallways leading into what would have been the rest of the building, and the lights above were dim. The air didn’t smell fresh, so Robin figured he was underground.

It would be easier to confirm if he could feel. Before the gap in his memory, Robin recalled that it had been a fairly warm day. Since he couldn’t hear any manner of air-conditioning, fans, or other noises that usually accompanied temperature control systems, he figured the temperature wasn’t even regulated. If he could feel, he would know if the room where warm because he was above ground, and it was warm outside, or if it were cold because he’s underground. He couldn’t even confirm if there was a lack of heating or cooling systems since he couldn’t feel airflow, and a high tech system could be perfectly silent.

Robin huffed, thoroughly annoyed. This was a bad way to start, or possibly end, the day. He stared at his bare feet, thinking of what to do next. The last thing that he remembered was being at Mount Justice with the Team, hanging out. From there, it seemed likely that Batman either called Robin back to Gotham for vigilante business, or the Team was given a mission. Given the fact that his head felt rather silent, despite being occupied with his current tumbling thoughts, hinted that he had recently been part of a mind link. So it stood to reason that the Team was given a mission.

It could have been in Gotham, when Robin considered his current surroundings. But given Batman’s rule against supers in his city it was far more likely the room had been tailor made to elicit some kind of response from him. It also wasn’t working.

The Team would be close by, then. In their own rooms made just for them.

Robin’s only option was to leave through the double doors at the front of the room, the only visible entrance. He nodded firmly and strode between the desks. He was almost out when something caught his eyes. A bench, beside the front desk. It would be just like any other bench if it weren’t for the bloodstain on it. Robin walked forwards and crouched down in front of it, staring hard at the dark red spot.

It didn’t look like someone had actually bled on it, but instead smeared blood across it. With their hands, and possibly from their clothes. Robin’s breath hitched, and he slowly reached out, handing hovering above the seat as if resting on something. Nothing was actually there, but it wasn’t hard for the Dark Squire to visualize a small, dark-haired boy, lying on his side with eyes red from crying and blood smeared across his green leotard.

Robin stood up again and scanned the room once more, paying closer attention to detail. It was much easier to see now. The room was an exact remake of the first precinct building. There were a few changes, some desks moved around, but only because the actual building had changed since the day his parents died. Robin couldn’t suppress a shudder as his mind flashed back to those dark times. He allowed himself three seconds to overcome the dull ache of his childhood trauma, then focused on what was important.

Finding the Team. He gave the room one last visual sweep and faced the doors. He couldn’t see anything that implied the door was rigged to do anything when opened. Preferring caution, Robin moved to activate his holocomputer, before remembering his gloves were gone.

“So not asterous,” Robin mumbled as he placed his hands upon the doors. With no other options, he eased them open. It led into a surprisingly normal looking hallways. Beige walls, patterned tiles, and fluorescent lighting. It was almost like the halls of Wayne Industries. He spotted a camera aimed in his direction and scowled. If his hologlove were functioning, he could have hacked it, probably found the rest of the Team. As it was, whoever captured them would now know he was no longer in his personally designed room.

How insulted they must feel.

Knowing there was nothing he could do about it, Robin slipped into the hall and looked around. It seemed to go on forever, which was possible, but unlikely. He suspected some kind of illusion. With nothing to go on, he could only choose a random direction and hope to find someone else. But just in case he had to come back this way, Robin turned to take in the door he’d just exited.

It looked nothing like the doors of a GPD building on the outside. The whiteness of it stood out garishly in almost cozy hall. It wasn’t even a double door anymore. Curious, Robin opened it again with right hand. The inside was the same as before, and looking inside he saw he was holding one of the doors open. He grabbed the other and stepped back. Now the white door was in his left hand, and his right was empty, despite the fact that the door wasn’t supposed to open that way. Sorcery was definitely involved.

Letting the door fall shut, Robin chose a direction and started walking, sticking close to the wall and under the security cameras. It so strange, not being able to feel his fingertips brushing against the wall, a habit he developed from working in the dark. He wouldn’t notice if it were to suddenly disappear.

Robin shuddered at the thought of everything that could go wrong with his current situation. He could be freezing (or boiling) to death right now and not even know. It was more than a little whelming.

He maintained a quick pace as he traversed the hall. So far there weren’t any other doors, or any branching hallways. The one he was in didn’t have any turns either. Maybe his earlier assumption was correct and the hallway did go on forever and it was his fate to run it forever. Frustration growing, Robin stopped running and spun around, kicking the wall with the heel of his foot. He didn’t feel the impact, but the there was a sizeable dent where he hit. It was a good thing he kick with his toes, he could have broken them and not even known it.

Robin pressed his fist into the dent, huffing in frustration, and looked up. His heart soared as he saw a door only a few feet away from him. Sure, it was behind him, meaning he’d run past it, but considering the involvement of sorcery, that was understandable. He strode up to the door and grasped the handle. Robin eased it open, just enough to see inside. His eyes widened and he flung the door open.

“No!” Robin shouted in disbelief. He was staring at the inside of the old GPD building. The blood stain on the bench confirmed it was the same room as before. Robin growled and slammed the door shut, then sprinted down the hallway the way he’d come. In no time at all he was back where he started, and inside was the exact same room. He stared around, trying to find any subtle differences between the two rooms.

They looked exactly the same.

Robin stepped into the hall and focused intently upon the distant walls. There was no curve, so he hadn’t been going in a circle. This time, Robin went in the opposite direction as before. He didn’t stop until he found another door, and flung it open.

Gotham Police Department. Three different door, three identical rooms. Unless the doors weren’t different, and the rooms weren’t identical, and instead there was only one of each. Without his utility belt, Robin couldn’t use his marker to write on the door, but he had a solution for that. He drove his fist into the wall beside the door. Satisfied there was now something different about one of the door, he went back once again.

Robin sighed in relief when he saw no dent by the first door, but he moved on to check the second anyways. A detective was always thorough, and observant. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he realized the time it took to go between doors seemed to decreasing. When he reached the second door, the acrobat planted himself before, examining the surrounding wall. It was perfectly intact. He stumbled back, releasing a relieved and breathy laugh. His back hit the wall and he slid down, sighing heavily. They couldn’t be the same door. He laughed again as he realized something obvious. Punching the wall hadn’t been necessary, he’d kicked it already. He could have just looked for that, but his panic had banished the incident from his mind.

Robin glanced to the side and saw a blank wall. He stared at it blankly for a few seconds before lurching to his feet and pressing his hands against the wall. It should have been there, just a couple feet away. He dragged his hands across the drywall, but it was no use. Even if he expected to find something, he couldn’t feel it anyways. Robin looked down the hall.

Distances appeared to be fluctuating. Maybe the hole from his foot was just farther away now. He ran along the hall, not even registering the increasing number of doors on his left at first. Panting heavily, Robin stopped. It felt like he’d been running for hours, but it couldn’t have been longer than three minutes. He finally looked around and noticed the change that had occurred on the other wall. There were hundreds of doors, all squashed together with barely any space between them.

Robin gasped, backing up, and heard his elbow thud against something. He whirled around and saw more doors where there was once blank, beige wall. Doing the first thing that came to mind, he took off down the hall, but there was no end.

“Where am I?” Robin shouted. He suddenly stumbled, arms instinctively shooting forwards to turn the fall into a neat roll. As he bent forwards, he saw a heavy looking wrench lying on the floor. He had just enough time to gasp in recognition before the floor suddenly wasn’t there, and Robin found himself falling through empty air.

He yelled as light faded and wind rushed past. Eerie, discordant music echoed in the distance, and two colourful beams of light cut through the black. They illuminated five flailing silhouettes, and Robin found himself reaching towards one of their outstretched arms. Their fingers were almost touching when he hit the ground, head bouncing off the carpet and stars dancing before his eyes.

Robin lay dazed, tears streaming out from under his mask, and shot to his feet. He was back in the hall, but every light except the one above him had gone out. There was only door now, and he was standing directly in front of it. The darkness was more comforting than the door, but he didn’t have a say in the matter. The door opened inwards, opposite of how it should have, and he lurched forwards as if shoved. His saving roll was successful this time, but that was hardly reassuring.

The door slammed shut, and Robin was left sitting in the entranceway of pre-Gordan GPD.


	8. Blindness - PART II

Nightwing’s glare is absolutely terrifying. First it sweeps over the eavesdropping heroes, then settles on Wally. Even more unnerving is how he’s actually meeting the speedster’s eyes, or at least it looks like it.

“Dude,” Wally says, a hint of fear in his voice. “First, I didn’t actually say anything, that was all you! It’s not my fault they were listening. Second, how are you _doing_ that?”

“I know how tall you are,” Nightwing explained bluntly.

“Oh, yeah. Like that makes more sense.” Wally throws up his hands and starts walking away. “Are you guys hungry? Because I am, and I am _not_ sticking around for this awkward conversation.”

“You’re blind,” Connor repeats, since no one else is saying anything.

“It’s been established.” Nightwing nods, and silence falls again. Wally’s right, it’s awkward, and the talking hasn’t even started yet. Most of the Team is thinking over their day of interaction, trying to see if they should have figured it out sooner. There were hints, but they never would have known if they hadn’t heard it themselves.

“Maybe we should go back to the living room?” M’gann suggests. The others nod and start walking, eager to leave the hallway. Nightwing is right behind them, and the Martian hangs back just a bit, so she’s floating beside him. She hesitates, then lays a hand on Nightwing’s shoulder, as if to guide him forwards. Nightwing stiffens and immediately shrugs it off. He can practically _hear_ M’gann’s hurt expression. Nightwing feel guilty immediately. He didn’t been to brush her off like that, but after Bruce treating him like he is some glass doll that would break at the lightest touch, he doesn’t appreciate coddling or pity. But M’gann is only trying to be her normal, helpful self.

“Thanks, Miss M, really, but I can get around fine. Just warn me if I’m about to run into a wall that wasn’t there a few years ago,” Nightwing jokes, earning him a soft laugh. He sends out feelings of reassurance and thanks. When they enter the living room, Nightwing hesitates, because isn’t in there yet. Last time the speedster had subtly informed him where everyone was sitting, so the blind hero wouldn’t accidentally run into anyone. But M’gann has it covered, and sends him a mental image of the room.

Nightwing smiles, because it’s nice to actually _see_ something after so long, even if it’s already fading. There’s an empty chair to his right, 20 degree angle, three steps away tops. He decides to do something that will equal parts worry and entertain everyone. He walks towards the chair, places one hand firmly on its back, and flips upwards. He balances on his single hand for no more than half a second, and bends his elbow to drop down into the chair.

He hears a squeak of surprise over the protesting springs – M’gann, and twin gasps that is probably Artemis and Zatanna. A quick shuffling, which would be Kaldur and Connor lurching forwards, ready to help if he fell. He can’t hear Raquel’s reaction, so it’s probably just a change in expression. And Wally –

“Dude!” Nightwing turns his head in the direction of the kitchen, and Wally’s voice. “Don’t do that, are you trying to give everyone heart attacks?”

“Only small ones,” Nightwing says with a smirk.

“Does he do that a lot?” Gar whispers.

“He used to,” M’gann answers, happiness lacing her voice.

“So, awkward conversation time. Fun,” Wally drawls, at soft thump signalling he’s taken the last remaining seat, probably with food in his hands. The speedster is right, and a serious expression settles on Nightwing’s face. He decides to let the others make the first move, and leans back, resting his head against the cushion. There’s nearly a minute of silence, where he’s certain the Team, or at least certain members of it, are having a mental conversation.

“How’d it happen?” Connor asks.

Nightwing smirks at their choice of a mouthpiece. “Remember that incident a couple years ago with the new villain, the one that ‘killed’ me?”

More silence, the Team is nodding.

“Uh, yeah,” Zatanna finally answers, and Nightwing just smiles again. He’s used to this, people being unsure how to act around him, having to remember that he _can’t see_ if they nod, or shake their head, or hold out their hand. He finds it endearing, because it means they care enough to be embarrassed about it.

“His chemical weapon didn’t really do much, gave Richard and I a few burns. For the most part the fight was going well, but the villain had rigged a trap. The moment I tried to free Richard from his restraints, we were both blasted in the face. Hurt like hell.” Nightwing chuckles and raises a hand to his face, fingers brushing the edges of his mask, recalling the fight. The compound had eaten through his mask, fused it to his face, and burned the skin underneath as well as the surrounding area. He has never seen the scar it left, but Babs always assured him it was asterous-ly frightening.

Maybe he can ask M’gann to send him a mental image of it.

The soft gasps echoing around the room mean the Team has finally noticed the discolouration around his mask.

“Whoa, cool.” It’s Gar, and the following smack is M’gann, scolding him for the comment.

“Pretty whelming, huh?” Nightwing asks, glad someone is staying positive during this situation.

“Whelming?” Gar asks.

“Wing here likes to butcher the English language. Did it a lot in his Robin days,” Wally groans.

“Noted. How do you fight?”

“Technology is a wonderful thing,” Nightwing says, almost wistfully. He turns on his hologlove, fingers dancing across the keys. Each key causes a different reaction when he presses it. A light buzz, a warm tingle, a smooth vibration. He knows each key by feel. Nightwing patches into the cave systems, pulls a map of the hallways, and produces a projection of the cave’s first floor. He runs his hand across the projection, which interacts with sensors in his gloves so it actually feels real to him. The rooms and hallways make grooves in the image, and Nightwing quickly learns the layout of the floor.

“In new buildings, I can pull up blueprints and create models like this. It only takes a few minutes to learn the layout.”

“Lucky photographic memory.

Nightwing ignores Wally’s jealous grumble. “For fights and room navigation, I have these.”

The blind hero pulls two devices from his ears. He knows they look like communicators, and are flesh coloured so people won’t see them. “I have sensors all round my suit that constantly scan my surroundings. When these earbuds are on, I get verbal readouts of the area, like wall and building positions, the height of things, where people are. If I start moving quickly, I receive beeps instead. Volume indicates distance, tone is size, and length is speed.”

“Are you using it now?”

Nightwing faces the source of Gar’s voice head tilted and an ‘are you serious?’ expression on his face as he raises the earbuds.

“Right.”

M’gann giggles, and Nightwing assumes Gar is blushing in embarrassment.

“Besides, if I had them on, it would drive Supey crazy. Information overload and all that.” Nightwing shrugs. He doesn’t realize for several seconds that he’s accidentally insulted the superclone. Not being able to see the fierce glare really dampens its effect.

“You don’t think I could use those?”

“I don’t think anyone besides me could use them. Care to give it a try?” Nightwing holds out his hand, and feels the vibrations of Connor’s heavy stomps before the earbuds are swiped from his palms.

“M’gann, could you move these four sensors,” Nightwing points to the middle of his chest, each shoulder, and a point on his back, “to Connor’s shirt in the same positions. Remember, Superboy, no peeking.”

Connor growls, and Nightwing feels the tug and pluck as the sensors are detached from his suit. He waits patiently, and grins from ear to ear when the thumping and bumping starts. Every step, Connor bumps into something and curses. It’s entertaining enough just to listen to it, but the muffled laughter indicates it’s even better to watch.

Finally Connor lets loose an angry shout “They don’t work!”

Nightwing is tugged forward and Connor grabs his hand and slaps the earbuds down. “Did you put them in right?”

“What?”

“The one with the notch goes in the right ear.” Nightwing runs his fingers over the earbuds, lifting the correct one. “Sound isn’t send to them equally, it ranges to help me pinpoint position. If you put the earbuds in wrong, then you’ll hear something on the right, when it’s really on the left. Anyone else want to try?”

“I do!” A gust of wind, and the earbuds are gone again, in Wally’s possession. “M’gann, the sensors please.”

“He’s running down the hall,” Artemis informs Nightwing after a moment. “It’s a straight away, Baywatch! It doesn’t count!”

There’s another rush of wind and Wally returns to the room, then an enormous crash.

“Wally!” M’gann gasps, while everyone else descends into fits of laughter. Sans Kaldur, who is maintaining a mature demeanor, and Connor, who never really laughs.

“Dude! Those things are as fast as I am!” Wally cheers, not at all put off by his magnificent fall.

“Nearly. I doubt you got all the proper signals, since it can’t process that fast, but it’s pretty accurate.”

“Hey, former Boy Wonderful, do we get a turn?” Zatanna asks. Nightwing just nods, and that’s how they spend the next hour. Everyone takes turns using the earbuds and sensors, and Nightwing explains how everything works, giving them pointers. None of them would be able to rely on the system in a fight, not the way Nightwing does, but Raquel actually manages to walk around the room without bumping her shins too many times. Zatanna’s okay with them, but neither Wally, M’gann, nor Gar are able to use it on a functional level. Connor doesn’t try them again, but Kaldur takes a turn. He’s not bad, and his patience certainly helps him absorb the information and process it, but he takes too much time.

Nightwing is finally getting everything back when a zeta announcement rings through the cave.

**Robin B-2-0**

Nightwing freezes, and he knows everyone is looking at him. It was never outright said, but as soon as Nightwing’s original identity was revealed, the Team was about to put two and two together to figure out he and the current Robin are related, probably brothers. No one moves, then Nightwing suddenly runs forwards, vaulting over the couch as a staccato of beeps fill his ears. He can hear the others following, but focuses on Robin’s voice.

“Batman wasn’t going to let me in the cave today, but I heard we had a new members and suck off-” Whatever Robin is going to say next is cut off as he’s tackled from behind and pulled into a tight hug.

“What the heck?” Robin squirms in the strong grip, and gasps. “Nightwing?”

Robin returns the hug, burying his head in Nightwing’s shoulder. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I’m not,” Nightwing mumbles into his little brother’s hair. Robin pulls away immediately, and the older hero is glad he can’t see his hurt expression. “I’m on the Team, but I’m not going back home. Batman doesn’t approve, he still treats me-”

Nightwing groans and shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure the only reason he even asked me to join the Team, is to keep an eye on me.”

“Because he still cares!” Robin protests.

“That’s the thing, Robin. You know how much I need this life, _Batman_ knows how much I need this life. But he’d never going to trust me enough. If I go back, it’s the end of me.” Nightwing’s tone had grown low and serious, and the Team behind them worry how literal his words may be. “I’m still here, and you can visit me in Blüdhaven, but I can’t go back to Gotham.”

Nightwing’s hand is on top of Robin’s head, and he feels his brother nodding.

“He wasn’t letting me go to the mountain today,” Robin says, realization dawning on him.

“He told me you were buys, homework.” Nightwing grimaces.

“Are you going back to Blüdhaven tonight?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Aw, man, you’re not gonna stay here?” Wally whines, reminding the brothers they have an audience.

“Sorry, KF. They call it _Blüd_ haven for a reason.” Nightwing flashes a cheeky grin.

“Wing… just… no,” Robin groans.

“Not the right time?” Nightwing asks.

“For that joke? It’s never the right time.”

“Kid’s got a point,” Connor grunts in agreement.

“Oh, come on, Supey, you used to love my jokes!” Nightwing spins around, frowning in Connor’s general direction.

“Never,” Connor denies.

Nightwing shakes his head dejectedly. “Anyways, I’m not heading back yet. I won’t start patrol until nine, so we still have a few hours here.”

“About that, I’m going with you,” Robin states.

“What?”

“To Blüdhaven, tonight. I’m going with you.”

“Robin, Batman-”

“Didn’t want me to see my brother. I can’t see you at home, and I’ll hardly see you here. It’s just for tonight, but I’m going on patrol with you tonight. I’ve always wanted to patrol with you.”

Nightwing wishes he could see the smile in his brother’s voice. “Just for tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I can see you again. But Blüdhaven isn’t a place I want corrupting my precious little brother.”

“I live in Gotham, I’m already corrupted.” Robin is pouting, and it sounds adorable.

“Not as much as I am.” Nightwing smirks and ruffles his brother’s hair, knowing Robin absolutely hates that. Unlike Dick, Tim prefers to keep his hair neat and combed back.

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Robin mumbles, and Nightwing’s hand is shoved away.

Nightwing smiles sadly, fingers twitching towards his scarred eyes, as he faces the little brother he’s never actually seen. “It is to me."


	9. Vocal Trauma - PART III

If there is one thing that Robin hates, it’s having a cough. There are a lot more things he hates, most of which he hates more, but having a cough is pretty high up on that list. First there is the scratch in his throat that never goes away. It is infuriating, drives him crazy, and no amount of warm milk and honey, or soothing tea, or lozenges could ease it. Then there is his voice. Every time he gets a cough, his voice always becomes all hoarse. At the ripe age of thirteen, he is only just starting puberty. This means his voice cracks, a lot. People always snicker when that happens anyways, but it seems to be doubly hilarious when he is hoarse, because then it sounds grating and more like a squeak. Wally would never let it go if that happened around him.

There is one more reason he hates having a cough. It is horrible for stealth. Batman trained him to sit still for hours. He can stay crouched in the corner of the cave for a whole day unnoticed and unmoving if he wants to. He can restrain himself from shivering in a cold breeze, or hold himself steady in a buffeting wind. He can even shove down a rising sneeze. But he can’t stop himself from coughing? That is just ridiculous, and true.

And so, chained up and hanging upside down in the middle of the Joker’s newest bolt hole, Robin decides he loathes having a cough more than the crowbar swinging lazily towards his ribs. At least if he didn’t have his cough, the Joker might not have found him before Batman could arrive for backup. Robin winces, biting his lip as the crowbar strikes his stomach, then his chest, then his shoulders. Joker is holding back, Robin knows this. He’s felt the madman’s full strength strikes, and this is nothing compared to that. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. A crowbar is a crowbar, and a body is a body. There’s no way for the two to comfortably meet unless you’re the one holding it. And Robin is already well acquainted with his one.

“Come on, bird boy,” Joker pleads gleefully, “just one song before Batsy gets here.”

Joker spins away, gesturing grandly to the entrance of the old garage with one hand, while the other one casually swings back to strike Robin’s hip with the crowbar. “Maybe he’ll be just in time to hear the crescendo!”

“Go to hell, Joker,” Robin growls. One upside to having a cough? The rough quality of his voice makes his threatening tone sound damn cool, Robin notes happily.

“Oh, I’ve already been to Arkham, no thank you.” Joker shakes his head and sighs, like it’s such a shame Robin isn’t screaming in pain. To him, it probably is. With Joker’s back still turned, Robin tries to shimmy and see if there’s any give to the chains. Joker didn’t strip him of his belt and gloves this time. Granted, there isn’t much need to with Robin’s arms pinned to his side, unable to reach his waist. But, if he can twist his wrists just right, he can pick the padlock bouncing against the small of his back as he sways.

The chains clink slightly and Robin moves, but Joker doesn’t seem to notice. He twists and turns his arms until his wrists are brushing. He gropes for the padlock, grimacing at the painful angle he bends his wrists to do so, and slowly lifts and aims it so the lock is facing up.

Robin has been hanging here for a while and is feeling a little dazed as his blood rushes to his head. He could pass out, if he stays like this too long. He fumbles with the lock pick sticking out his glove’s index finger, trying to find the lock. Just as it slides in place, Joker turns back to him.

“If you won’t sing, how about a joke instead?” Joker asks. He raises the crowbar threateningly and taps it against Robin’s jaw, slowly at first, adding more force each time until he’s smacking him in the face. It’s not strong enough to break his jaw, but it will leave a sizeable bruise.

“No?” Joker pouts when Robin doesn’t say anything, then grips the crowbar in two hands and pours power into the swing. The crowbar hits the chains around Robin’s middle, and he gasps, feeling the pressure on his ribs. Joker reels back and swings again, and the crowbar thuds against his chest. Robin swears he can hear the crack his collar bone fracturing. He curls up as much as he can in this state, preparing himself for the next hit. Instead the crowbar clatters to the floor.

“I’ve got a better one anyways,” Joker comments as he strides away, towards an old workbench with a worn out duffle bag on top. As he’s rummaging around, Robin hurries to pick the lock. Arms sore and bruised, it takes him a little longer than normal. But the padlock falls, and the chains start uncoiling, and Robin has about two seconds to think of how maybe he should have come up with a plan first before he drops.

He lands on a coil of chain not used to tie him up, while the one that did lands on him. He can already hear the bruises forming, and the sharp slap across his collar bone doesn’t help anything. Robin groans and rolls away. He’s stumbling to his feet when Joker grabs his arm and yanks him forwards. Robin trips and suddenly Joker is the only thing keeping him upright, and their faces are uncomfortably close together.

“What do you say, Boy Blunder? Wanna hear a joke? It’s quite a good one, if I say so myself.” Joker cackles, a little pre-emptively Robin thinks, since he hasn’t even done the joke yet, and brings his other hand up. Clutched between his fingers is a needle, filled with a noxious screen liquid. Robin gets the joke now, and it isn’t funny at all. He struggles, but Joker is stronger and pulls Robin’s arm out, exposing the crook of his elbow, and drives the needle into his vein.

Robin cuts off a sharp cry, because the concoction burns as it forces its way into his bloodstream. The Joker finally lets him go, and Robin scrambles back, ripping the needle from his arm. But it’s too late. There’s already a strange rash were the needle broke his skin, and Robin is forcing himself to stop the giggles and snickers bubbling up his throat. His hands shoot to his belt, to the pouch were he keeps his anti-venom.

“Uh-uh,” Joker scolds, wagging a finger and lifting Robin’s belt. After injecting the young vigilante, his nimble fingers and pulled the belt from his waist. Robin has to get it back. He lunges forwards, but is stopped by a punch to the gut. His gasp turns into a shriek of laughter, and he claps his hands over his mouth.

“Oh, you do like it!” Joker leans down, grabbing Robin’s hair. “I know you would.”

He’s about to his Robin again when there’s a loud crash.

“Uh-oh! Time to go!” Joker laughs gleefully, and he’s out of the building for Batman has reached his protégé.

“Go… after him,” Robin forces out. He doesn’t laugh, so Batman doesn’t know the danger he’s in. Just nods and takes off. Finally alone, Robin collapses, gasping and reaching out. But Joker took the belt when he ran. Robin crawls across the floor, and every couple of fit he’s stopped be a fit of laughter. He’s almost to the door when he can’t hold it in anymore. Peals of laughter bounce off the garage wall. Echoing cackles and shrieks of laughter that drown out Robin’s own thoughts. He needs to catch his breath, his gasps growing shorter and more desperate. But he can’t stop laughing.

Robin is gripping his throat when his lungs start to constrict, no longer getting the oxygen they need. The edges of his vision pulse red, then grey, then black as everything starts to blur. His laughter is tearing at his throat, ripping it to shreds, and he almost wonders if he’ll drown in blood before he suffocates when everything goes black.

…

He’s not laughing, when he wakes up, and he’s thankful for that. Everything is sore, and it feels like he’s swallowed knives. But he’s alive. The ceiling of the Batcave towers above him, and the makeshift walls of the infirmary surround him. Batman looms closest in his vision.

“He injected you with Joker venom, you almost died. You’ve been out for fourteen hours.” _You know what Joker venom looks like. Why didn’t you tell me? I was worried._

“Jo… ker,” Robin’s voice hardly sounds like a voice at all, and it hurts _so much_ to speak. Batman immediately shushes him.

“Suppressing the laughter caused severe damage to your throat. This wouldn’t have happened if you had an antidote.” _Why didn’t you tell me?_

Since Robin can’t speak, he’s forced to convey his words with a look. But it’s not that hard, they do it all the time. _Joker needed to be stopped_.

“He got away.” _I heard your laughter, I had to go back._

Then Joker was still out there, terrorizing people.

“No,” Batman says, before Robin can even ask. They both know something as simple as a single word won’t stop him from going out. It didn’t when he was nine, it won’t know.

“You will go to the mountain, and I’ll look for Joker.” Robin’s about to protest, vocally, when Batman continues. “When I find him, I’ll contact you.” _I don’t want you to face him on your own again._

He hesitates only a moment before nodding. He knows Batman will follow through with his promise, he always does.

Robin puts on a fresh uniform, noting the discoloured rash and odd bruising on his elbow, as well as the many other bruises on the rest of his body. His collar bone didn’t break, and the fracture turned out to be minor, but it’s taped up nonetheless. He dabs some makeup onto his bruised jaw, which isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be, and pulls his cape over his shoulder after snatching a notebook and pen. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain away his lack of a voice to the Team. Robin isn’t fond of displaying weakness to them, even if they are his friends.

He silently bids Batman good luck and zetas to the mountain.

Robin isn’t surprised when he enters the mountain for a few relaxing hours before Batman will call him to action and the halls are filled with shouting. He wanders out of the mission room, searching for his teammates, and follows the noise to the lounge. M’gann and Connor are sitting silently on the couch, watching the static, and Wally and Artemis are standing behind them, shouting at each other.

Robin waves cheerily to the not-a-couple, who barely notice him, and vaults over the back of the couch to sit beside Connor. He grabs the remote, raising a questioning brow at the definitely-a-couple. Connor shrugs, and Robin turns the TV on properly. He’s skimming through channels when he sees the Gotham gossip channel. It’s an actual news station, but they never broadcast anything concerning. And today they’re broadcasting his little ‘incident’ with Artemis.

“Then do it!” Artemis shouts. Robin has no idea what they’re fighting about, but what Wally says next is too perfect.

“Hey, I totally will! I never turn down a challenge!”

Robin whips out his notebook, ignoring M’gann’s questioning stare, because he usually doesn’t have a notebook tucked under his cape, and starts writing. When he’s down, he spins around and throws his pencil. It bounces of Wally’s cheek, into Artemis’ shoulders, and draws both their gazes to him.

“What?” They snap in unison. Robin taps the page.

_Quiet contest_

_Winner receives gloating rights, and a jar of Robin's secret cookies_.


	10. Paralysation - PART I

Dick Grayson is not afraid of heights, he’s afraid of falling. It is instilled in him at a young age, when he first starts practicing for the trapeze. It goes hand in hand with learning the trade. One small mistakes makes the difference between flying and falling. His fear is only reinforced when his family dies. He becomes Robin and, being a member of the Batclan, learns to keep his secrets close. His fear of falling is one of many secrets.

The Team is used to watching Robin fall. He frequently grapples across the roof of the cave, jumps off tall buildings and doesn’t reach for his grapple until the last possible second. They chastise him for such reckless risks, saying one day he won’t be able to catch himself. Robin in turn laughs and explains he’s not _falling_ he’s _flying_ , and there’s a big difference. They don’t get it, but he doesn’t mind. He’d rather keep this feeling to himself anyways.

But now? Now they understand. _This_ is not what Robin does. _This_ is not swinging between support beams and dropping off skyscrapers two swing through the streets. This is simply dropping.

M’gann and Connor are stuck fighting their way through the basement levels of the building. Zatanna is unconscious, being carried to safety by Kid Flash, so it’s only Robin and Aqualad on the roof when it happens. They’re putting up a good fight, and it’s obvious they’re going to win. That doesn’t mean the bad guys can’t get lucky. Aqualad is fending off two opponents when a third sneaks up behind him. Robin doesn’t have any more batarangs, have already exhausted his supply on the unconscious goons scattered throughout the building. The only thing he has is his fists, so he does something incredibly stupid.

Just as Kaldur finishes with his two opponents, Robin tackles the third goon, and they both tip over the edge.

Kaldur is the only one who sees the whole thing. He stretches over the edge of the roof, tries to catch Robin’s cape, but it slips through his fingers. M’gann sees a blur of black, yellow, and red from the corner of her eye. She and Superboy are too late to help when they reach the window, only watch. Finally, the three of them understand, there is a difference.

Kid Flash is the only one who doesn’t see him fall, who has no warning. He has just returned from carrying Zatanna to the bioship, and he stops before entering the building to adjust his googles. There’s a rush of wind, a blur of colour, and a thud at his feet. Wally freezes, his hands still raised to his head, and blinks. He _was_ smiling, but his expression goes blank as he looks down to the now blood stained sidewalk.

Robin always flies, but not that day. That is the day Robin fell.


	11. Prosopagnosia - PART I

Whenever someone knew joined Haley’s Circus, it didn’t take them long to notice the strange behaviours of their new coworkers when it came to the youngest performer. The child appeared shy, hesitant to approach other members of the troupe. But there were a few people he would approach enthusiastically. Like the fortune teller; she was always draped in shawls and wearing lots of bracelets, or Pop Haley, who was never seen without his top hat. He rarely ever spoke first, but almost as soon as someone spoke to him, the young boy would open up as if something within him had been unlocked.

It was incredibly odd when he would approach his own parents with hesitation. Often times they would smile at the boy, show him something on their wrists, and he would become an energetic chatterbox. Sometimes he would grin, or laugh, or even cry in relief when this happened. Ever stranger than that, this never occurred when his family was wearing the top half of their green leotards with a bright yellow G, which they did often.

The newcomers never understood, but the ones that stayed eventually learned. Few people could remember the name of the boy’s condition, but knew he couldn’t recognize faces because of it. He could remember people’s names and other distinctive details, but never their faces.

It’s why the fortune always wore her bracelets. The sound of them clinking together would tell the boy who she was. He was the reason Pop Haley hardly ever took off his top hat, because without it the youngest performer wouldn’t recognize the man he considered a grandfather.

Dick Grayson is the reason the flying Graysons have leather bracelets with their names sewn onto it, and why they normally wear their very distinctive uniform. Because without it, he would not recognize who they were.

…

If watching his family be murdered wasn’t enough, Dick’s short tenure in the Gotham Center for Juvenile Delinquents was spent in a perpetual state of confusion. He didn’t know anyone. The first few days a couple people tried to befriend him, but they stopped when they realized he wouldn’t recognize them not even an hour later. It didn’t help that everyone wore the same orange jumpsuit. He could recognize his cellmate in the morning and evening, but only within the context of their shared cell. Outside of it he had no idea who the other boy was.

The other kids would look at him and sneer, whispering loudly about how “There’s something wrong with that kid, he’s messed up.”

The first kid that said that, Dick punched in the face. Over the next couple of days, Dick didn’t get why these kids with bruised eyes kept glaring at him. He would quickly forget what they looked like when they turned away, but another one always showed up. He was too busy trying to watch out the boy he’d hit, but couldn’t remember what that kid looked like either.

Three weeks had passed when the stranger took Dick out of the detention centre. The man said his name was Bruce Wayne, a famous name in Gotham. Then he explained he was the man who approached Dick after his parents died, asking if Dick would like to live with him.

The former aerialist naturally didn’t recognize him, but he remembered the moment. Dick thought the man had forgotten what he looked like.

Despite the understanding of the circus folk, and the effort some of them put in to make themselves more recognizable, Dick had never fully understood his condition. To him, one day faces just stopped looking familiar. Everyone turned into a stranger. He was six when it started happening, obsessed with growing up, and assumed forgetting faces was just a part of it. His mother had tried to explain it once, but at the time he didn’t get it. His family never even knew.

It wasn’t until he screamed in surprise when he was awoken by a strange old man after his first night in Wayne Manor that he learned not knowing people’s faces wasn’t normal. He was eight when that happened. The butler, Alfred, quickly reminded Dick of who he was and said he was going to get Bruce. Dick didn’t recognize the younger man Alfred brought into his room, but assumed it was Bruce. Still, he felt uneasy.

“How are you recognized?” Dick asked, and the two men looked at him in confusion. He reworded the question. “How do you recognize each other?”

Again they looked confused, and Dick sighed in frustration.

“You know!” He said in annoyance. “When you become strangers again, and your faces aren’t your faces, how are you recognized?”

It was a question he asked frequently at the circus. Whoever he was talking to would smile and show him a necklace, or a tattoo on their leg, or a pair of shoes they always wore that meant they were exactly who they said they were. He thought those were for everyone, not just him. It’s why he always wore something blue, so the other members of the circus could recognize him.

“Master Grayson, I’m not sure we know what you mean,” Alfred said as Bruce left the room. “Our faces are never not our faces.”

“They aren’t?” Dick asked in surprise. Maybe Bruce and Alfred were different for some reason. When Bruce returned—and Dick only knew it was Bruce because of the striped grey tie—he was carrying a big medical dictionary, and showed something to Alfred. The butler’s eyes widened and he looked at Dick.

“What?” Dick asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“You have prosopagnosia,” Bruce stated bluntly, and proceeded to explain. That was the first time Dick understood what was different about him, and he wondered if the other kids at juvie had been right. Maybe he was messed up.

…

Dick always loved vigilantes, mostly because they were so easy to recognize. Their costumes hardly ever changed, and their faces were usually covered anyways, so he didn’t have to know their faces to know Flash was actually the Flash, and Batman was really Batman. This was a very reassuring thought when he became one of them. Batman was a little jealous when Dick recognized most of the heroes on sight as he was introduced.

The other members of the Justice League were impressed with how observational the young child appeared. Even though many of them frowned upon his induction into the superhero world, they were also enamoured with him. Robin was talkative, skilled, and could even make the Dark Knight smile. He was quickly gaining their approval. Until Hal Jordan left the room, and returned without his power ring, meaning his Green Lantern uniform was gone as well.

Robin stiffened when the stranger entered the room. The man wasn’t wearing a super hero’s costume, and Robin wondered if he was an intruder. He looked at each Leaguer, judging their reactions to this newcomer. When no one panicked, Robin turned to the man and ask, “Who are you?”

Batman quickly informed him it was just Hal Jordan without his uniform, and ordered Robin to head home. The little bird was crestfallen, but listened. As the Zeta-Beam powered up, he heard Superman’s first question.

“Batman, what’s wrong with that child?”

…

It took a year of Robin kicking criminal ass on the streets of Gotham for the Justice League to accept him. He knew the moment he asked Bruce to train him that being a vigilante who was unable to recognize faces had its dangers. Ironically, the problem did not lie with the big time criminal crazies. Joker, Scarecrow, and Two-Face all had very recognizable appearances. And Robin knew he would never mistake Killer Croc for some innocent bystander.

But how would he know if someone walking past him on the street was Penguin’s thug who had escaped during a bust? Or even Penguin himself without his top hat and cane? It just meant he had to do more, see more, and prove himself worthy of the name Robin, and he did.

This was exactly the boost of confidence Dick needed to gather his courage and tell Bruce something he always wanted to since his first September at the manor.

“I want to go to school.” Dick, now ten years old, stood in front of Bruce with a determined expression. He had been homeschooled for the past two years, which was no different from the first eight of his life, but now he wanted to experience the real thing. Bruce gave him one calculating before nodding.

“Okay, if you think you’re ready. You’ll start in September.”

“Yes!” Dick cheered. For the past two months he had been slowly gathering supplies as he built up his nerve, and already had a backpack stuffed with pens, pencils, and notebooks. He was only worried about one thing, how people would react to his prosopagnosia. When he was first taken in by Bruce, the media exploded, and reporters hounded them for weeks every time they left the manor. It take long for some of them notice Dick’s strange behaviour, and Bruce decided it would be better to reveal Dick’s condition rather than leave the media clinging to rumours and fabricating theories.

Because of this, almost everyone in Gotham knew of Dick’s struggle. That didn’t mean his classmates would understand it when they met face to face for the first time, or the second time, or the third time. But considering how improved Dick’s observational skills were, he was confident everything would work out.

Two weeks before the start of the schoolyear, Bruce took Dick it for a placement test, to determine if he was up to par with his peers. Three days later the results came, and Dick had performed so well on his test that Gotham Prep was offering to bring him up a grade. Dick eagerly agreed.

Two days before his first real day of school the panic set in. Dick woke up and saw a uniform folded neatly on top of his desk. He hadn’t bothered to consider that Gotham Prep was the middle school for Gotham Academy, a private school that demanded its students wear uniform. The task of recognizing his classmates had just become infinitely more difficult. Dick had taken into account that outfits would change daily, but for that one day he would know who someone was based on what they were wearing. The next day, he would just have to hope they sat in the same seats. He stared nervously at the dark blue blazer and slacks for several minutes before taking a deep breath and nodding firmly.

He was Dick Grayson, he was Robin. He could recognize a criminal from the smallest details, and he would recognize his classmates.

…

One person. Out of five classes, each with an average of twenty other students, he could only recognize one person his second day of school. Dick tried, really, but no one else he met was quite as distinguishable as Barbara Gordon, with her flaming red hair. They’d had an interesting first meeting during first period. Dick took the seat in the back corner of the room, so there were only two people he would have to try and recognize. Barbara was to his right, and he quickly started examining her features to try and store away anything he could remember her by. It didn’t take her long to notice his unusual amount of focus on her, and she snapped at him to quit staring. Flustered, Dick introduced himself, and she did the same, then promptly ignored him the rest of the class. But as it turned out, they had several classes together, and Dick felt reassured every time he walked into a room and immediately recognized her, even if she wasn’t so fond of him.

On his second day, Dick zeroed in on Barbara and immediately sat down beside the first class they had. He glanced at her, and saw that she was staring at him this time. Although it was more like a glare. He quickly focused back on his desk.

“Hey, Grayson.” Dick looked at the boy sitting in front of him, and felt the panic rise when he couldn’t figure out who it was. Yesterday first period, Louis had been sitting in front of him. But there was nothing to tell Dick whether this really was Louis, or another student he introduced himself to.

“Hey.” Dick nodded, then looked at his desk again. Maybe-Louis just shrugged and sat down. Dick looked at Barbara again, and caught the slight turn of her head as she pretended she hadn’t just been staring at him again. He hesitantly reached across the aisle and poked her shoulder.

“Um, Barbara?” He asked. Dick normally wasn’t so quiet. Most people he met agreed he seemed very outgoing and talkative once he got going. But in a still unfamiliar setting, with no one he knew well beside him, Dick’s nerves were getting the best of him.

“What?” Barbara asked, her voice just shy of snapping.

Dick checked to make sure maybe-Louis wasn’t listening, or at least wasn’t paying enough attention to overhear, and leaned across the aisle to whisper his question. “Um, who is that?”

“What?” Barbara asked again, giving Dick that look people gave him, like there was something wrong with him. Dick hated that look and fidgeted uncomfortably. “It’s Kyle. You talked to him yesterday when class finished.”

“Yeah, right.” Dick nodded and chuckled nervously, quickly moving back to his own seat. Maybe he wasn’t ready for school yet. There were several seconds of silence before he heard it, a soft “Oh,” falling from Barbara’s lips. She looked his way, and made the sound again.

“Right, you have, uh, progonosia?” She guessed.

“Prosopagnosia. I can’t recognize faces,” Dick explained.

“Oh. But you knew who I was?” She leaned towards him, obviously curious.

“Being distinguished helps.” Dick shrugged. “I don’t forget hair, most peoples’ just isn’t as memorable as yours.”

“Oh,” Barbara said again. “Yesterday, when you were staring, you were…”

“Trying to find something to remember you by,” Dick confirmed.

“Sorry, then, for snapping,” she said. While she didn’t sound particularly sincere, Dick knew she meant it. “Does anyone else here know?”

“The teachers were told. The other students, they probably heard it at some point two years ago, when everyone was making a big deal about it. But I don’t think they’d remember right away,” Dick said.

“So no one knows that you won’t know they’re, well, them,” she summarized.

“No, they won’t.”

“Then I guess this means I’ll just have to help you,” Barbara stated matter-of-factly and leaned back in seat. Dick blinked and looked at her in surprise, not expecting the offer.

“Hey, you already know how to recognize me. Look at some other people,” Barbara jested. It was the first joke someone had ever said about his condition that made him laugh.

“Okay. Kyle, then.”

“Okay. It’s not easy to see with these uniforms, but I know he’s got this birthmark on his wrist…”

…

Robin was proud to say he only accidentally called Wally Roy, or Roy Wally no more than three times. Both older, but less experiences, protégés were similar in height and build at the time. They had similar hairstyles, and were both redheads, a feature Dick decided was a good crutch when it came to recognizing people. After all, it was the rarest hair colour in the world. He found it thoroughly ironic, then, that he knew three redheads, two of which were very alike.

Batman wasn’t pleased the first time the Flash suggested all three of their protégés get to know each other outside of the uniform. The archer and speedster did not know of Robin’s difficulty, and Batman didn’t want any of Robin’s weaknesses to be leaked. He already didn’t like it that half the Justice League knew, thanks to that first incident with Hal Jordan. But eventually he relented, because without his mask Dick had the greatest puppy dog eyes, and Bruce couldn’t resist those wavering blues when Dick begged to give him the chance to make more friends. It was something Dick struggled with enough as it is, considering Barbara was his only friend. He didn’t want to be separated from the other junior heroes too.

Their first outing together went well. They were in Central City, arguably the calmest of the three, and with Wally talking a mile a minute there was never an instant for Robin forget which of redheads was which. Their second time together was when he made the first mistake. Robin was late getting through the Zeta-Beam, and exited the faux photo booth to find the archer and speedster glaring at each other, after what was presumably a rather heated fight. It didn’t look like either of them had plans to speak soon.

Robin looked back and forth between them, adjusting the sunglasses that obscured his own identity, and made a decision. He swivelled to face on of the redheads, wearing a gray sweatshirt.

“Wally, what did you guys do?” He asked. When the boy looked at him in confusion, Robin knew he’d made a mistake.

“Hey, dude, did you already forget what I look like?” Wally asked, waving a hand in front of Robin’s face. The younger hero recoiled and looked shamefully at the ground.

“Yes,” Robin muttered and, against Batman’s orders, explained prosopagnosia to his two newest friends. Roy gave him a weird look, but otherwise just shrugged and accepted it. Wally immediately started comparing himself to the archer, holding a hand above his head, and moving it across the space between them to measure their height, then tugging at Roy’s hair while struggling to look at his own.

“I’ll grow it out,” Wally decided. “I’m hungry, does anyone want pizza?”

…

At the age of thirteen years, Dick had grown adept at handling the downfalls of his condition. He was an excellent vocal analyst, and now managed to recognize most new people he met by their voice alone. He learned to notice every little detail, looking for the most distinguishable thing about a person, so he would know who they were the next time they met.

As Robin, he had undergone a few unfortunate experiences over the past five years because of his struggles. But he never let that slow him down. The scars he earned served as a reminder of how much he needed to see. Batman had tried, once before, to talk him down from being a vigilante after a particularly brutal beating at the hands of Two Face. It was completely unrelated to Robin’s prosopagnosia, but Batman still tried to use it against him anyways. It didn’t work. Bruce tried to take away the uniform, and Robin simply struck out on his own. He was away from the manor for three days before Bruce relented. Dick knew he would see sense.

Thirteen years, and Robin was sick of having to prove himself. When Batman promised they would get to see the League headquarters, Robin thought he had finally done. But he was sorely mistaken, and almost regretted not walking out with Roy. But he would never regret the following events that night. Hacking into the Watchtower, finding the sublevels of Cadmus, and rescuing Superboy. It was one of the greatest moments of Dick’s life.

Standing defiantly in front of his mentor, and the rest of the Justice League, with his best friend by his side he felt stronger than ever.

“We’re ready, Batman,” Robin said. It wasn’t a statement, it was a demand, a threat. Robin was the only one who saw it, but when Batman gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, he grinned.

Prosopagnosia be damned, Robin knew he was a great hero, and soon the Justice League would know it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like this chapter, at all, and I just wanted to let you guys know that I will be rewriting it when I have the time. But I didn't want to miss an update.
> 
> I only just realized I never posted it here on AO3, but at the moment I will be updating this story on the 17th of every month.


	12. Hyposmia - PART II

Nightwing was seven years old. He was scared, it was dark, and his shoulder was in an unbelievable amount of pain. He tried to wriggle and move around, but he felt a heavy pressure pushing down on him. He could barely budge. Nightwing whimpered, wondering where he was, and more importantly who he was. He had a name, and thought that he was very young, but otherwise knew nothing.

Maybe he was nothing. But he thought it was impossible for nothing to have a conscience, so he must have been something. Besides, he knew he had a shoulder. He whimpered and hissed as the pressure lessened, as his pain suddenly increased. Whatever had been forcing him down had also been numbing his body. But there was a loud scraping sound, and suddenly the blackness above him started to pull away, and the pressure was gone entirely.

If it was even possible, his shoulder hurt even more now. Nightwing felt a tug and he lurched upwards, but the flow of his movements made it seem more like he had fallen down. He was sitting on something hard. A rectangle of stone, with short walls around it. It was a stone coffin. Someone had pulled the lid away, and it was lying cracked on the grass beside the coffin.

Nightwing looked away from the lid and around. The night sky was above him, dotted with distant stars. He was on a small island, and by the distant sound of waves, high above the ocean. There was grass, and there were ten more coffins lined up beside his. The ground rose up around each one so they were on their own little hills, higher and higher until the coffin at the end of the row loomed up above the rest. Nightwing stared at them with a mix of curiosity and foreboding as he slowly climbed out of the eleventh he occupied. There was no hill holding up his. In fact, it seemed to be sunken into the ground somewhat.

More than anything, Nightwing wanted to climb up to the tallest coffin. He felt like he had to. But he had to open the other ones before he could. Rather than actually walking to the first coffin, the whole island seemed to lurch and move under his feet. Nightwing stumbled, nearly tripping as his small feet were forced up the tiny bump of a hill. There was a small green flower beside him, and as the island continued to shake, he curled himself over top of it. The lid of the coffin he stood by started to crumble in the quake, and dust and piece of stone fell on top of Nightwing as it broke away.

The shaking stopped, and he stood up. The flower he had protected was fine, and slipped back into the ground. Nightwing only stared at the spot a moment before looking into the coffin instead. There was a woman inside. Her hair was light, with a slightly reddish hue. Nightwing couldn’t see them, but he knew her eyes would be blue. He looked to the rest of her body. She wore a uniform, sort of like the one Nightwing wore, but he couldn’t see any padding or armour on it. Hers was red on top and blue on the bottom instead of a mix of black and grey, and bird on her chest was gold instead of blue.

Looking down at her, he felt a strong wave of guilt. He didn’t feel her death was his fault, but he knew, somehow, he had a chance to stop it. If only he knew who she was.

The longer Nightwing stared at the woman, the more it felt like he was going to cry. He wasn’t sure if he back away or was pulled away, but soon he was stumbling towards the next coffin. With every step a green flower shot out of the ground, then was pulled back in. For some reason, Nightwing felt like this flower was leading him, rather than him leading it.

He marched up the second hill in two steps and pressed his hands against the lid. The flower currently by his feet grew and laid its leaves on the stone slab as well. Together, they pushed it off. The lid fell with a loud crash, despite the softness of the ground, and the flower disappeared again, leaving Nightwing alone to stare at the second corpse.

A man, dressed like the woman, with dark hair rather than light. The same feelings washed over him. Guilt over knowing he could have somehow stopped him from dying. There was a word trying to force its way through Nightwing’s lips. He tried to hold it back at first, but it was stubborn, and he eventually spoke.

“ _Tati._ ” Nightwing had no idea what the word meant, but it applied perfectly to this person. He couldn’t look at him any longer and turned away before the tears came.

He marched determinedly towards the next coffin, this time a few steps behind the flower that continued to pop in and out of the earth. He bounced up the small hill and pushed the lid off. It was another woman. Dark hair, but she didn’t look like either of the people in the coffins Nightwing. Though she was bruised and battered, and the site of her brought the same wave of guilt. Gaze skimming over the preserved body, Nightwing caught sight of the flower, trembling visibly by the base of the next coffin.

Abandoning the woman, he bounded down one hill and up the next. He was several feet above the first tomb now, and looked down at it. From his current spot, the stone coffin looked so small. In fact, it didn’t even look like he would fit there. Nightwing glanced down at his body. He wasn’t as short as before. Still small, but not as much. He wasn’t seven anymore. He was eleven now.

The same age as the boy hidden underneath the heavy lid. Nightwing hadn’t seen himself, but knew that he must have looked similar to this other child.

“ _If you don’t do your chose, auntie says you won’t get to fly_!”

Nightwing blinked in surprise. The voice must have belonged to this boy at some point, but he couldn’t remember who he was. It felt like something was gnawing at his mind, begging to be remembered. And it hurt, that he didn’t know who this boy was, or who those other people were. His sense of guilt only deepened, and he spoke for the first time since waking up on this small island.

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” The name had slipped from his lips easily, and Nightwing didn’t even notice he said it until he started down the hill. Halfway between one coffin and the next, he froze. Not entirely of his volition, it felt like something was holding him back. Turning him around, making him look back up at the other boy’s coffin.

“Johnny,” Nightwing whispered. That was the boy’s name. He lifted his foot, intent on returning the way he came, hoping to remember more, but again something was stopping him. He couldn’t go back, it would change nothing.

The grass stretched up, wrapping its leaves around Nightwing’s foot, and dragging it back to the ground. His foot slid along the ground as it was pulled, and Nightwing was turned around once more. The only thing he could do now was move forwards, and that saddened him greatly. He trudged up the next hill, slipping a few times on nothing, and practically had to drag himself up to stand beside the newest coffin. It wasn’t that the climb had been steep, but it felt like the ground was slipping beneath his feet, and one misstep would send him stumbling.

Nightwing shoved the heels of his palms against the lid, nudging aside just enough so he could see inside, but the slab of stone wouldn’t go tumbling down the hill. It was another man, who looked startlingly like the first, and even a bit like the young boy. Something shifted in his mind, clicking into place, and Nightwing realized this man, and the four people behind him, were all a family. But this man—Nightwing thought of his as someone’s uncle, rather than someone’s husband or father—hadn’t died with them. He didn’t feel the same wave of crushing guilt, knowing he could have something, just an incredible sadness because nothing could have been done.

The flower at Nightwing’s feet seemed to droop, like it could sense his sadness. He nodded slowly to it, and dragged his feet as he started walking down again. The entire situation was becoming tedious. While Nightwing wanted to reach the final coffin, so badly, he didn’t want to face the sadness.

Not to mention the hills were annoying.

“ _Hurry!_ ”

Nightwing’s head snapped towards the flower, which was ahead of him now. Had it really just spoken? He crept forwards, taking his first steps onto the next hill, and knelt down beside the flower. The petals were curled upwards, like it was looking it him. The flower trembled and was sucked back into the ground.

“ _Hurry!_ ”

He up and saw the flower was now halfway up the hill. He had to follow it. Nightwing scrambled, digging his fingers and toes into the dirt to climb faster, because this hill was steeper than the others. He was a foot away from the flower when it disappeared again, and made itself known at the top of the hill with another shout.

“ _Nightwing!_ ”

Nightwing stumbled at the top of the hill, and rather than sprawling over the coffin, fell through it and nearly rolled down the other side. Gasping, he sat up and whipped around to look at the coffin. Now that he was close, he could see it wasn’t quite solid. Its shape wavered, and it was transparent in some spots. Nightwing wasn’t sure how he would get the lid off, but tried anyways. His fingers met no resistance as they slipped into the stone. He positioned them under the lid, and gently lifted. To Nightwing’s surprise, it actually rose up, but it was heavier than the others. Much heavier. If he were still seven, or eleven, that may have been a problem.

But he wasn’t. He had trained, he had strength—he wasn’t sure how he knew this—and the lid flickered out of existence when it was a few inches up. He was thirteen, and he killed the transparent teenager staring up at him.

Coal black hair, stormy blue eyes, and a strong build. Nightwing didn’t know how, but he was the reason this teenager died. And he also wasn’t. Nightwing scowled, staring down at his victim. This boy wasn’t dead, but he also was. It didn’t make sense.

“What did I do to you?” Nightwing asked. There was no answer, although that wasn’t too surprising. He looked over his shoulder at the next coffin. Whoever was in there, he killed them too.

Nightwing closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped backwards. Rather than tumbling down the hill, the heel of his foot planted firmly on the next one. He managed to cross the fifteen foot gap between the two coffins in one step. Before turning, he already knew this was another there-not-there coffin, with a dead-not-dead person inside. Nightwing slowly pried the lid off, and was surprised to find two there-not-there corpses instead of one.

The coffin was big enough that they were lying side by side without touching, and both were covered in extensive burns, but still recognizable. The first boy was taller, with red hair. He wore a yellow suit, and a pair of scorched goggles over his eyes. The second, who had dark hair, was much shorter and wore a red vest with black pants. There were bits of black and white fabric burned into the skin around his eyes. Nightwing dropped to his knees, falling through the first boy, and leaned over the second. This younger boy, it was _him_. He was one of the dead-not-dead. Nightwing put on hand on the corpse’s chest and felt a hot, prickling sensation travel up his arms. It grew warmer and warmer until it was burning.

Nightwing gasped and pulled his hand away. He felt a crushing weight as he stared at these bodies, and lurched backwards when he realized kneeling in Wally’s chest.

 _Wally’s_ chest. This was Wally, his… his… friend? An acquaintance? Possibly a citizen he both did and didn’t fail to save—because by now Nightwing had realized he was in the business of rescue, though the details still eluded him. The guilt and sadness Nightwing had felt at the sight of each corpse changed to a bitter self-loathing.

All he wanted to do was forget this, that he was even capable of this. It took a large amount of willpower to not just throw himself down the hill, although Nightwing felt he would deserve it. Instead he skidded down the slope, and started marching up the next. There were only three hills, he was so close to his goal. As he made his way up, the self-loathing started to fade. It didn’t go away, but it shifted. Nightwing was still angry, but at someone else. He was angry at,

“Jason,” Nightwing spoke softly as he opened the newest coffin.

“ _I can’t believe I ever looked up to you, Dickhead._ ”

That was it. That was Nightwing’s name—the Dick part, not the rest, although that wasn’t much better. This boy, with his bruised and battered skin, and singed clothes, was Jason Todd. His little brother, the one he absolutely hated when they first met, because Jason stole his name. Jason was the reason he became Nightwing. And being him, those other graves.

Dick at thirteen, subjected to a traumatizing simulation. Wally West, Kid Flash, his best friend, died with him in their minds. Connor Kent, Superboy, Nightwing sent him as a distraction, sent him to die in the same scenario. John Grayson, Dick’s uncle, dead after two years in a coma. His cousin, his aunt, mother, and father, murdered by a mob boss and he… he had forgotten them. Somehow, Dick forgot about his family, his first family. He remembered them now, but he had already pushed them aside too much.

There were only two hills, two graves, left, but now Dick was afraid to continue. He didn’t want to remember the remaining dead, didn’t want to know what part he played in it. But he had to.

Dick left Jason’s side, keeping his fingers on the stone coffin until the last second. He climbed the next hill robotically, noting how it was a little steeper than the others. In fact, each hill had been steeper than the last, and now he was rueing the final climb he would have to make. It would be easier just to stop and stay. He pushed the lid off the coffin, and stared down at the girl inside. Red hair, slender build, blue and yellow clothes.

It was Tula, Aquagirl. She had sacrificed herself to save the Team. The sort of loss Dick felt this time was different than the others. It wasn’t like losing someone close to him, or a fond comrade. He hadn’t known Aquagirl well enough for that, and that’s what pained him. Dick was the leader on the mission she died, and he failed her because he was afraid to take risks, to become Batman.

“I’m sorry,” Dick repeated, lowering his head in mourning.

“You should be.”

Dick’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at Tula. She was looking at him. Her arms rose from her sides, and her hands curled around the walls of the coffin as she sat up.

“You killed me.”

Dick scrambled around the coffin so his back was to the final hill, and Tula’s gaze followed him.

“I didn’t kill you,” Dick insisted, though the words sounded dead on his lips.

“You’re the reason I’m dead. You’re the reason we’re all dead.” Tula looked down on the other hills, and the other open coffins. The transparent bodies of Wally and a young Dick were rising up, and beyond them the other corpses were doing the same.

“I didn’t, I’m not…” Dick’s words failed him. He couldn’t deny what Tula was saying.

“You failed as a leader,” Tula said, and three pairs of flickering eyes settled on Dick.

“You failed as a caretaker.” Uncle Rick started to drag himself out of his coffin.

“You failed as a son, nephew, and cousin.” The Graysons stood on shattered limbs.

“You failed as a hero.” Dull gazes passed through Dick and look beyond him, above him. The hero slowly turned, looking at the final hill. The coffin was still shut tight, but he could hear the banging from within. A cold hand closed around Dick’s shoulder, reminding him that he was already in physical pain, and he was shoved. There was a brief moment where his feet lift the ground, then his knees hit the side of the hill and he tumble. Dick wrapped his arms around his head, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his shoulder. He stayed huddled for several seconds after he stopped before slowly untangling himself. He was leaning against the final hill, and he could see Tula slowly making her way down. The others would be on their way. There was only one place for Dick to go.

“ _Run!_ ” the flower called.

Dick hurried to his feet, struggling to climb the last hill. It was almost vertical, forcing Dick to use both his hands and feet. He slipped several times on the wet grass, ripping through the turf and sending chunks of dirt down on his pursuers.

The flower was running beside him. Not literally, but that was the easiest way to describe how its stem cut through the earth. Halfway up the flower pulled ahead, and soon it was disappearing over the crest. Dick pushed himself harder, straining to reach the top of the hill, and slapped his hand victoriously against the side of the final coffin. He spared a glance over his shoulder and saw the living corpses were gathered at the base of the hill now. Dead as they may be, they were quick, and weren’t faced with the same limits as Dick. He would have to be fast.

He slammed the heels of his palms against the stone lid, sending it crashing down the hill, and boldly faced the final corpse.

It was the one man he always wanted to see dead, Tony Zucco. Bullet holes and broken bones were all that was left of him. Dick leaned over the coffin, now tall enough—and old enough—to properly do so. Dick was seventeen, he beat this man half to death, and left Zucco to his enemies. Dick may not have given the final blow, but he might as well have.

Zucco was grinning and cackling. He reached up, curling his meaty fingers into the fabric of Dick’s suit, and yanked down.

“I win,” Zucco rasped, his rotting breath choking Dick’s lungs. More hands latched on to him, grabbing his arms, legs, and neck, slowly turning him until Zucco was the one leaning over the coffin, and Dick was trapped inside. Ten grey faces looked down on him, chittering and cursing his very existence. Their hands pressed against his chest, forcing out the air in his lugs, and closed around his throat to prevent him from taking in more.

Dick tried to gasp, but he wasn’t able to. He trembled and bucked, hoping to throw off their hands, but he couldn’t move. The crushing weight was back. Connor shoved his way through the gathering, carrying a new stone lid, and started to slide it into place. Dick croaked, trying to shout and defend himself, tell Superboy to stop, but his pleas achieved nothing. In the last sliver of light and sky, Dick saw the flower, wilting, its roots crawling along the stone and trying to reach him. Then the darkness returned.

The coffin shook and Dick could feel it sinking into the earth. They had buried him. His friends, family, and enemy. He had screamed, they had screamed, and now he was dead. Trapped in a lifeless body. He couldn’t breathe, and the weight would eventually wear him down to nothing, until only his consciousness and the darkness were left.

Dick wallowed and moaned, and his mind drifted back to the flower. It was dying, _he_ would die without Nightwing.

“ _Nightwing!”_

It was the flower, it was Gar. Beast Boy needed him, and Nightwing refused to fail again. He gasped as air rushed into his lungs, and he struggled against his invisible bonds to lift his arms, pressing against the lid of the coffin. He set aside the pain in his shoulder and put all his force into moving the slab of stone. Nightwing slowly rose to his feet, grunting with effort. He opened his eyes and saw Bane’s large fist a foot away from his face.

The drug addict was considerably larger than Nightwing, his fist nearly the size of Nightwing’s head. But Nightwing had fought Block Buster on a near daily basis when he first moved to Blüdhaven. Bane was nothing compared to that colossus.

“You don’t _touch_ Beast Boy.” Nightwing growled. With a great surge of strength, he threw Bane’s fist back and ducked inside his reach. Nightwing flipped, planting his hands on the ground, and kicking Bane in the face. Bane stumbled and Nightwing landed in a crouch, glancing over his shoulder at Beast Boy. The green skinned boy was sprawled out on a pile of rubble, looking bruised a little worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed.

From what Nightwing could see, Scarecrow’s bomb hadn’t destroyed the entire building, only a large portion of it. Right now they were on the second floor of the remaining half. Only a few feet to Nightwing’s left was free air, and below that the crumbled remains of the rest of the building. Lying on top of that was Scarecrow himself. Unconscious, one arm snapped like a twig. Possibly Bane’s work. And speaking of Bane…

Nightwing reached for his belt, grabbing a flashbang, and threw it across the room. He shielded his eyes as the flash went off, and started his assault before Bane could recover. Bane may have been physically stronger than him in any normal situation, but Nightwing had a serious advantage here. He was pissed.

Scarecrow’s special dose of fear gas had forced Nightwing to face all his greatest failures, the worst moments of his life. And then Bane had the audacity to show up—Nightwing would have to ask Gar about that—and threaten his teammate. Nightwing was _not_ in the mood. His fighting was ruthless, targeting every weak point just short of lethal. He punched Bane in the throat, used his batarangs to slice near vital arteries, and eventually managed to wrap his arms around Bane’s neck, swing around, and rip off the tubes feeding levels of Venom that would be lethal to anyone besides the addict.

Bane made a sick choking sound and dropped to his hands and knees, fingers clawing at the mangled tubing. With a drug as potent as Venom, the effects of withdrawal set in almost immediately. Bane’s eyes widened and his hands started shaking. Nightwing strode around to stand in front of the Gotham villain, and he crouched down so they were eye to eye.

“H…elp,” Bane croaked.

Nightwing scowled. “With pleasure.”

He drew his fist back and struck Bane in the face, immediately knocking him out. Nightwing rose, shaking out his hand, and activated a transmitter on his belt that would send a signal to Kaldur for pick up. He walked over to Beast Boy. Garfield was conscious, but dazed. There was a nasty bump on his head that meant he probably had a concussion.

“Hey, flower, thanks for bringing me back,” Nightwing said, grinning.

“Flow… wah?” Beast Boy asked, unable to finish the word.

“The bioship will be here soon, just sit tight. Oh, and don’t go to sleep.”

“Yessir,” Beast Boy drawled, his right arm rising limply in a failed salute. Nightwing chuckled and settled beside him, shifting to get as comfortable as he could while sitting on a pile of debris. He wasn’t happy at all about what happened. He should have been able to recognize the smell of fear gas, but couldn’t because of his cold. Nightwing quickly reached a conclusion.

That was the last time he would go on a mission with a stuffed nose.


	13. Anaphia - PART II

Robin was pacing around what little existed of the GPD building in his room. He hadn’t gone back out to the hall, and was instead thinking over the situation. Obviously there was some kind of magic at work, warping space. Chances were the hallway outside didn’t even exist. The room he was walking around probably didn’t exist. He stopped and headed to the middle of the bullpen, pressing his hand against one of the desks. He couldn’t feel whether it was solid or not, but since his hand didn’t pass through, that was enough confirmation. To Robin’s mind everything here was real.

He had two theories about the room. He already established it was made for him, the blood stain on the bench was indicative of that. So either someone knew Robin’s identity and used that information for this simulation or the image had been constructed by his own mind, facilitated by magic, machine, or mind reading. Robin hoped it was the second. That way, there was a chance his secret identity was still that, a secret.

No one was attacking him, so defeat wasn’t the goal. Robin looked around again. Besides the bloodstain the room was clean. It was meant to taunt him. There were still a number of possibilities, but the most likely at that point seemed to be a test of some kind. Robin sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk. He took heart in the sound, because it reassured him he was really touching something. He stopped, but the noise continued. In fact, it got louder and faster. More like knocking.

Robin looked to front door of the GPD building, but that wasn’t where the noise came from. He stood slowly and walked to the back of the room. Under the stairs that lead up to the offices was a hallway. It was supposed to be there, although it hadn’t been before. At the end of the hall was a door with a window, the kind that looked a little foggy and had a strange, bumpy texture. Robin could see a silhouette on the other side and someone was banging on the glass. He could make out the outline of a square jaw and a fedora.

He took a step forwards and the knocking stopped as the figure moved away. Each step he took had the silhouette moving farther back until he could no longer see it. Robin reached out to touch the doorknob, his hand stopping just centimeters away. It was silent, totally silent. He could barely hear himself breath. Robin stared at the glass intently, then ducked not even a second before the gun was fired. Two more shots followed and he scrambled back as an arm punched through the glass. It reached down and grabbed the knob, twisting it sharply.

Robin went for his batarangs before remembering he didn’t have any. He couldn’t fight in a narrow hall like this. Before the door could open he fled back to the bullpen. The heavy footsteps following him were slow, but still whoever they belonged to managed to catch up to him. Robin was just passing under the stairs when he was yanked back by his cape, his breath momentarily cut off. He coughed and gagged, reaching up to loosen the cape and tilting his head back in the hopes of lessening the pressure he knew was there. Then he saw who was standing above him, holding onto the end of his cape and grinning.

Tony Zucco.

Robin didn’t think, he just acted. He rolled onto his stomach and darted forwards, tackling Zucco’s legs. The mobster fell back and let go of Robin’s cape, which draped itself over his head. Robin swept his arms up to clear the fabric from his eyes, and was faced the barrel of a gun. He rolled to the side as Zucco fired and jumped to his feet to dodge the next shot. At such a close range his only concern was dodging, which gave Zucco ample time to rise to his feet while repeatedly pulling the trigger.

In the back of his mind Robin noted Zucco should have run out of bullets by then, but he didn’t have luxury of being able to ponder that fact.

He cleared the stairs and jumped over the banister, darting up a couple steps. Robin jumped as soon as the mobster was out in the open. Zucco only had enough time to spin around and fire one shot before Robin was on top of him. Robin punched him in the face once, twice, three times. Zucco’s eyes were bruised and bloody and swollen when he finally stopped, but the mobster was still conscious, and he was laughing.

Robin looked down and saw Zucco’s gun pressed against his chest. He smacked Zucco’s hand away, but it wasn’t fast enough. The force of the bullet made Robin jerk back. Zucco reared up and punch him in the jaw, sending him crashing into one of the desks. Robin sat up easily, feeling no pain, and brought a hand to his shoulder. He couldn’t tell if it hit anything vital. He at least knew he shouldn’t be able to move that arm, but he rolled his shoulder with ease.

“That’s two,” Zucco said with a chuckle, the first noise he made since the fight began.

Robin frowned, not understanding. His hands skimmed over his vest and drifted down to his legs. The hand he pulled away from his thigh was slick and red. It must have happened when he was leaping off the stairway.

“Poor Richard Grayson.” Zucco sneered. “Maybe I should string you up and watch you fall.”

Images of a circus tent and five falling silhouettes flashed in Robin’s mind, accompanied by the sound of carnival music and horrified screams.

“Shut up!” Robin shouted and launched himself at Zucco again. He wasn’t sure if he dodged the bullets fired or not. He wasn’t even sure if he cared, his only goal right now was to beat Zucco. He grabbed the mobster and threw him down against a desk, smashing Zucco’s wrist against the edge until he let go of the gun. It clattered to the floor.

“You ruined my life!” Robin yelled and punched him in the face.

Zucco laughed. “You should be thanking me.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Robin asked, punching the man again.

“Without me, there is no Robin.” Zucco grinned when Robin’s fist stopped in midair.

It was a horrible thought, but it was true. How many lives had Dick saved since he became Robin? How many people would have died if his family hadn’t? Robin was a force of good that Gotham needed, that _Batman_ needed. His mentor had always been dark, but he was worse before Robin entered his life. They saved each other. But if Zucco hadn’t killed his family Robin wouldn’t need saving, and he wouldn’t be there for so many people that needed him.

Robin was the first ever child hero. Wally told him once that while the Flash was his hero, Robin gave him the courage to recreate his uncle’s experiment. The whole reason Green Arrow adopted Roy was because of what he saw Batman and Robin could do together. It was frightening to think about how different things would be if the Grayson’s hadn’t died. It was more frightening to think about all the times he wished they were still alive.

Anyone who lost someone close to them wished it at some point. It wasn’t selfish, it was lonely. But Robin wishing them to life would be like wishing everyone he ever saved to die. As a hero, that wasn’t something he could just do.

“You say I ruined your life. I say I made it.”

Zucco made Robin who he was, that much was true. Robin knew he could no longer fantasize about going back in time and stopping Zucco before he could cut the cable, not without feeling guilty for it. It was horrible, and he couldn’t do anything. Not then, at least. But he had a chance now.

“How’s that for justice?” Zucco chuckled.

Robin let go of Zucco’s suit and grabbed his head, leaning in close. “How’s this?” All it took was one quick jerk and Robin brought the end to his beginning.


	14. Synesthesia - PART I

Dick Grayson cannot decide what he thought of synesthesia. Sometimes it was amazing, like when he puts his headphones on, cranks up his volume, and watches the music dance before his eyes in a symphony of colours. Sometimes it sucked, like when his parents died, and it felt like he had hit the ground with them.

Not in the “it was so emotionally painful it made my body ache” way, but in the “I have mirror-touch synesthesia, and if I see you get poked, it feels like I get poked” way. But it wasn’t a poke. It was a slam into hard packed dirt. Dick tries not to think about that.

But it’s most annoying when he’s at school. The chatter in the hallway becomes an erratic tangle of colours, shuffling feet a grey haze, and the sound of binders and backpacks zipping shut zig-zag across Dick’s vision in bright yellow lines, like a child drawing lighting.

Then there’s the touching. Aren’t teenagers supposed to be reserved, hands to yourself types? Dick knows a lot of people that cherish their personal space. Apparently none of his classmates do. Everyone is high fiving, elbowing each other, and poking and prodding. It’s why Dick spends most of his classes staring down at his desk, or at the teacher straight ahead.

School is loud and crowded, and if it weren’t for his best friend, Barbara Gordon, he would probably hate every second of it.

“What if I punch him? I think he would stop,” Barbara muses. It’s lunch time, and they’re sitting outside. Fewer people and sounds to mess with Dick’s senses.

“Maybe, but then that’s just cruel,” Dick answers.

Barbara gives him a surprised look. “Why? He deserves it.”

They both look across the courtyard, where Donald Thompson sits with a couple of his friends. He’s the number one tormenter at Gotham Academy. But he isn’t like regular rough them up and ditch them bullies. Don is clever. He doesn’t touch his victims personally, he doesn’t do anything that will get him detention outright, and he doesn’t get caught.

That day, Don had decided to bring a speaker to school. It’s small, but powerful, and the music—though Dick hardly considers it music—blaring from it easily carries across the courtyard. Listening to loud music is frowned upon, but it technically isn’t against school rules.

Don is grinning in their directions, because he knows Dick can hear the ‘music’, and can see the erratic dance of colours that hurts his eyes more than the horrible sound hurts his ears. He can already feel the headache coming on.

“He does.” Dick nods. “But if you punch him, I have to watch, because there’s no way I’m missing _that_ , but then you’re basically punching me.”

Barbara rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. You told me it’s not the same thing.”

Dick laughs, which he knows will piss Don off, because how _dare_ he enjoy himself when Don is trying to torture him. “True, but I think _that_ will be more entertaining.” He jerks his head to the courtyard entrance. Walking under the archway is a furious Artemis Crock, and she’s making her way straight to Don’s table.

“She looks pissed,” Barbara whispers excitedly. “Did something happen at the mountain?”

“Late mission, followed by _Wally_ ,” Dick explains, and that’s all he needs to say.

Artemis stops in front of Don’s table and doesn’t hesitate a moment before ripping—verbally—into him. The music is still playing, so Dick and Barbara can’t hear what she says, but it’s a glorious thing to witness. Don’s face slowly turns red, his victorious smirk falling. He says something back, quietly and smooth. Whatever it is, only pisses Artemis off more. She leans forwards, grabs Don’s speaker, and throws it as hard as she can.

Being an archer, Artemis has powerful arms and a wicked throw. The speaker sails across the courtyard and smashes into the wall beside Dick and Barbara. The sound of it shattering looks like a bright silver flash, and Dick grins. He waves at Artemis, who gives him a weird sort of “what the hell is wrong with you, kid?” look, and walks away.

“She’s my hero,” Dick says dreamily, batting his eyes.

“Oh, shut up Grayson, and let’s go to class,” Barbara says.

Dick laughs as they gather there things, and happily kicks at the broken pieces of Don’s speakers, enjoying the way the skitter across the concrete, the sound sparking in front of his eyes.


End file.
